


Sentiment

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Annoyed John Watson, Anxiety, Childish Sherlock Holmes, Comforting John, Coming In Pants, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassed Sherlock Holmes, Emotional, Emotional Sherlock, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Holmes Brothers, Hugs, Humor, Hurt Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Insecure John, Insecure Sherlock, Jealousy, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Saves the Day, John is a Saint, Love Confessions, Loving John Watson, M/M, Minor OC characters that aren't really too important for the story, Miscommunication, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, Panic At The Disco (Band), Post-Season/Series 04, Protective Mycroft, Reichenbach Feels, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Slow Burn, Smut, Song Lyrics, Virgin Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock, doubts, good guy lestrade, talking about feelings, they'll get there eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had always thought himself above human emotions. But after the scarring reunion with his sister, he comes to realize that he, afterall, has a heart. A heart filled to the brim with confusing emotions. Luckily, he has his best friend John Watson by his side.---A slow-burn lovestory between our favourite 221B Bakerstreet Boys.***Rating because of sexy times in later chapters <3





	1. Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> One day it came over me that I could combine two of my favourite things: Panic! at the Disco lyrics and Johnlock fanfiction. So I did. You're welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crime scene evokes feelings in Sherlock, feelings he would rather forget

_There's no sunshine_  
_This impossible year_  
_Only black days and sky grey_  
_And clouds full of fear_  
_And storms full of sorrow_  
_That won't disappear_

It was a long time coming. John had earnestly wished that his impeccable intuition concerning the human psyche failed him only this one time. He really, really had wished he would be mistaken. For Sherlock's sake (and maybe a tiny little bit for his own sake as well).

 But years of training- first in a war shattered Afghanistan and later in a surgery full of hypochondriac Londoners or crime scenes displaying the deepest, ugliest corner of the human heart- made him a precise alert system for mental break-downs.

John chewed his lower lip, while trying to pay attention to the soft, breathy crying of the subsect's mother, keeping Sherlock always in his field of vision.

 

It really had been a long time coming. John couldn't even blame Sherlock, the last months had been too much for them. Especially for the self-declared, certainly not so sociopathic sociopath.

It was a terrifying thought, concerning their everyday life consisted mostly of Sherlock pissing off crazy axe murders, chasing down criminals in the dark alleyways, or blowing their flat up out of sheer boredom.

'Not to mention the drug incidents from time to time', John's mind offered quite unhelpful. The doctor closed his eyes for the split of a second and exhaled, trying to calm his bare nerves. It had been almost a miracle that Sherlock didn't start using again after the scarring night. 'Or he has just gotten better at hiding'.

John groaned, cursing his brain for the 50th time that day for being such a bloody nuisance. Sherlock wasn't using again ('right?'). Sherlock would tell him ('right?'). Sherlock trusted him ('right?'). Sherlock had called him family (one more comment, and you're out, I mean it).

And that's what he would be. A moment of arrogance made him grin slightly. He wouldn't forget the shocked expression on Mycroft’s usually icy complexion for as long as he lived.

It had been one of the rare moments where he had felt rewarded for all the utter insanity he had to put up with. Not that he minded the excitement, quite the contrary (there were slow days at the surgery where he actually caught himself wishing for a diamond thief to chase or an anonymous serial killer to convey); but every so often Sherlock had been insufferable (again, it was a quite rich thing to say, considering Sherlock's 'normal form' was a charming mixture of condescending bastard and moody toddler).

 

When Sherlock had come back from the dead, John loathed him. He loathed every little second of this nightmare Sherlock had put him through without having the decency of at least giving him a small hint that there was still hope. No, he left John to suffer through depression and a sheer endless quest to find meaning in his once again meaningless life; only to turn up one day, just as John thought he had his life back together. 'You're planning to get married? Too bad, I'm back, John, make me some tea! Life? What life? I've been away!' (Of course, he didn't propose to Mary that night. Of course, she left him not two months after Sherlock's 'miracle'. Of course, even she understood that John Watson's life revolved around Sherlock bloody Holmes. What life? That damn bastard).

 

The hate subsided, but the sinking feeling of being nothing but a necessity for his friend stayed, always lurking in the back of his mind when he found himself unable to fall asleep. Because Sherlock didn't do feelings. And John, after having enough time to let his heart out of the closet when the object of its desire was gone, had to admit to himself that he did feelings. In fact, did quite a lot of them when it came to a certain consulting detective. Not that it mattered. Or at least John thought so at that time. He came to this conclusion in one of the heated discussions he had with Sherlock's image in his head (even in John's mind he hadn't have the decency to not be an insufferable bastard). After staring at the untouched cup of tea (he always made one for Sherlock as well for an embarrassing long time) for a small eternity, John decided to live again. He threw Sherlock out of his head (not without a bit of struggle, the man was a stubborn one, after all) and carefully coaxed the image of the world's only consulting detective out of his heart.

Life decided to be kind to John's scarred heart as Mary started her first day at the clinic on the very same day. They fell in love fast. It was a lighter feeling, nothing heavy, nothing lifechanging- but it was nice, John decided. It was nice not waking up alone. It was nice to have someone listen. It was nice to have someone to talk to, who responded outside of his head. Day by day, he fought himself back to normality. Until that very evening. The bloody evening where he wanted to make his new life official and Sherlock crashed back into it.

John could snort only at the thought. The damn man-child always had a sense for the over-dramatic. His fragile new life shattered at the first glimpse of that damn cocky grin; the first rumble of the unmistakably rich baritone tore the carefully stitched Sherlock-shaped wound in his heart right open. And there he was. His Sherlock had, miraculously, returned from the dead.

 

John sighed again. He really needed to focus at the task at hand. Spacing out during the statement of the suspect's mother was a bit not good. Although the distressed woman only confirmed the deductions Sherlock had made about 10 minutes after entering the "crime scene". It wasn't much of a crime scene, actually. Social services could have done just as well, but terrified parents called Scotland Yard after their children returned from the subsects home with severe wounds, too scared to say anything. They placed their bets on a child molester. What they found had been something out of a complete different direction. It was a down-right tragedy, to be frank.

John didn't even know why Sherlock had taken the case. It was a two at best, nothing Sherlock would usually bother about. Maybe it had been because Lestrade pleaded him to come, after half of Scotland Yard’s officers were struck ill with a nasty influenza virus.

Sherlock had developed a soft spot for the people surrounding him after Euros had happened. The changes were minimal, invisible for the unschooled eye- but John had become fluent in speaking Sherlock. It was almost as if the experience made him realize that he, in fact, wasn't so much of a sociopath as he would like to be. There were times where he looked almost lost- a complexion so un-Sherlock like that it genuinely hurt John to see his friend like that.

 

"She has always been different, our Violet, she has, but we didn't...we couldn't..." the woman made a strangled noise and buried her face in her shattered looking husband’s cardigan. John nodded in sympathy, but kept his doctor demeanour.

"Mental illness and psychopathy develops early" he noted, careful to keep his voice soft and professional; but the woman wept none the less when he addressed the elephant in the room. "You should have had her tested at the first signs of... abnormal behavior"

"She's not sick" the husband spat. Anger and embarrassment rushed over his features. Very common for deniers. It would take a lot to break the father's shell, John realized wearily. So, he settled for straight forward attack.

"Sir, I'm a doctor, and I can confirm you she is-"

"You might be a professional but, let me ask you Doctor- he glanced down at the small name-tag on John's clipboard- "Watson. Do you have any children?"

"No" John answered coolly, unnerved by the personal assault on this clearly not personal matter. "Then you don't know how it this feels. How would you feel if someone who you love is described as abnormal?!" John stared at the thin line of the man's lips and really wished he had drank that second cup of tea that morning. 

Involuntarily, images of Donovan and Anderson calling Sherlock a "freak" appeared in front of his inner eye, but he pushed it back down. Not the right time. Not the right place. Instead of answering the challenging tone of the father (the poor man was wrecked, no need to push him even further), he made his final notes.

"Let me offer you a last piece of advice" He addressed the crying woman, who clung to her husband's frame like a drowning person would cling to a lifeguard. "A team of medics will arrive shortly-" the husband was about to rise his voice again, but John discreetly ignored him- "Get her tested. Let them help her. For her own sake. I'm terribly sorry"

 

In the moment he closed his mouth, he spotted Sherlock coming back into his field of vision (he had gone upstairs with Lestrade, John recalled, to search for the mentally ill girl, who was the culprit of all this mess). Now that he thought about it, he shouldn't have let him. Not that he, John Watson, was in any position to tell the great Sherlock Holmes what to do. But he really should have tried (and maybe this once, Sherlock would have listened).

John stared dumfounded as his best friend dashed past him, right through the open door of the house. It took him 11 seconds to bring the pieces of information together (He practically heard Sherlock sneering in his ear about the slow rate of his brain performance). When realization finally hit him, he was momentarily frozen at spot. Mentally ill girl, bringing a lot of pain upon her family, hurting her brother's friends... it all sounded awfully familiar. It took John another 15 seconds to wrap his head around the mess this case created, before he hurried right after Sherlock, cursing himself for being so daft. After all, it had been a long time coming.

 

 _This impossible year_  
_Only heartache and heartbreak_  
_And gin made of tears_

 

After solving the case in merely 8 minutes (Drugstore tranquilizer shattered around, child-safe appliances although no toddler was present, weak attempts to hide demolished furniture underneath corny items of decoration- it was painfully obvious), Sherlock took it upon himself to get the girl with Lestrade and another young officer (mostly to avoid dull paperwork, really).

 

Actually, he should have seen it coming (He was Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes didn't get surprised). He didn't (Now, what an inconvenience). He was extraordinarily stubborn and annoyingly shortsighted when it came to his own reaction to sentiment. But really, something like this had never happened before. The ludicrous feelings he occasionally had to acknowledge never, never interfered with The Work. He kept them well hidden under the surface, allowing himself to face them only in the quiet moments at 221B Baker Street. He couldn't take people seeing him this raw, this _human_ \- not even John. John, who had seen it all pretty much on that night carefully buried in the darkest corners of his mind-palace. A corner he never visited voluntarily; but where his mind sometimes took him in the deceiving safety of sleep (But he was fine, thank you very much. Nightmares? Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do nightmares, don't be ridiculous, John).

 

So, he falsely assumed The Work was a sentiment-free endeavor and carelessly pushed the warning signs of his body aside. He had to admit, he was new to this whole emotion idiocy- but even he had to see that he wasn't as sociopathic as he had hoped. Still, he refused to believe that emotions could influence one of the greatest minds in England. Puny chemicals, hormones, transport... was nothing he couldn't suppress. He has spent years living above these basal reflexes, he surely wouldn’t start to be driven by them at the age of thirty-four. Sherlock Holmes was above sentiment.

 

Surely, his genius brain would understand that this situation was completely different than... and would very kindly tell his hands to stop shaking, if that's not too much to ask for? He drew a shallow breath and observed a small punch of nausea hitting him in the guts. He closed his eyes and tried to block the sounds of a screaming child out, for they somehow made him sick. He mentally rolled his eyes about his own asininity. Sherlock Holmes would not let himself be influenced by repressed feelings attached to a long-forgotten memory of the worst moments of his childhood- he would NOT!

Lestrade had talked to the little girl in his calm inspector voice, coaxing her into taking his hand. She didn't put much of a fight, but there was a certain dullness in her eyes. She smiled at the nice inspector, but didn't say a word. Her smile didn't make it to her dead eyes, and Sherlock felt sweat run down his back (Why was it too hot in here? The heat was making one nauseous!). _Her_ eyes flashed in front of his inner eye and he had to shake his head violently to get rid of the image. No, this was WORK, this wasn't Baker Street; he couldn't allow this sickening feeling into his system, they were reserved for solitude, for isolation, for the shelter of his bedroom when John was soundly asleep just one floor above and- There it was it again.

 

A sharp cry. Located next to Lestrade, belonging to a 10-year-old boy. Sherlock forced his head to turn to the left. His breath hitched at the sight. The way the young officer held the devastated child back was sickly familiar. Her brother, obviously, the kin was undeniably for the eye. As well as the signs of physical violence (Sherlock felt like he should sit down). "Don't" the boy begged, voice hoarse with an ugly mixture of tears and mucus. "She doesn’t mean it, she just doesn’t know...please don't take her away!" (He felt dizzy). He struggled against the strong arms, but it was no use, his exhausted muscles couldn't compete to the steady grip-

 

"Sherlock!", Mycroft's 14-year-old voice resonated heavy in his ears, drumming through his skull. "It will be better. Stop struggling, Sherlock. She's gone now" Sherlock held his head and tugged at his curls, using physical stimuli to make the memory disappear (he really needed to sit down). Distressed, he noted that he couldn't breathe properly, as if Mycroft's arms were still wrapped tightly around his torso. "She's gone" The voice whispered again. "She won't hurt you anymore" "Shut up" Sherlock hissed (Why was the room spinning?).

" _Caring is not an advantage_ " his brother's voice breathed into his ear, sickly close and real and Sherlock suddenly wished he was at home. He never once in his colorful career felt the urge to escape from a crime scene, but right now he wanted to go home and crawl under a blanket and kill the memory of himself humiliatingly clunging to his brother for support. A wave of nausea hit him and the last thing he registered before he escaped out of the room was Lestrade’s voice, filled to the brim with worry, asking him if he was alright (he wasn't, he felt sick).

 

It was a bit messy, and he dumped into several objects while he tumbled down the stairs in a dizzy haze- but he had to run, run as fast as he could to just get away. He would have run to the end of the world if it had changed a thing. The cold air burned in his lungs like fire, but he just continued running- for running was the only thing that made the voice go away- the burning in his muscles and the taste of bile in his mouth made him feel alive and _real-_ Mycroft wasn't there, it was his head playing tricks on him, but the pain was here and it was real and he was real. He felt like running forever in his dizzy state, but in reality, he barely made it around the front door. Sherlock faintly registered John's jogging steps right behind him.

 

He leaned against the dark side of the wall, hidden in shadows of a setting afternoon sun, and scratched the bumpy fabric with his fingernails frantically (Physical stimulus to ground him, bind him to reality, before he could get lost... lost somewhere... deep ... deep down in his mind). His breathes grew more and more shallow, the world was spinning even more than before, and with mild panic Sherlock registered his insides turning, right before he was sick over a rosebush. Instead of passing, the nauseous feeling intensified even more and John arrived just in time to watch him barf spectacularly for the second time.

"Sherlock" John's voiced reached him like through a veil of heavy cotton. He couldn't hear properly, white noise vibrated in his eardrums. In between was Euros, Euros laughing at him, loud and clear, while she sang that song about the East Wind. He tried to open his eyes, but the muscles wouldn't obey, he felt betrayed by his own body and trapped inside of the golden cage of his mind.  Images of Redbeard, images which seemed to betray him mocked him behind his closed eyelids ...his friend, his only friend, what was his name again?

Frantically, he dashed through the rooms of his mind palace, but instead of their usual order, they were wretched in utter chaos. Information was crossed out and painted over, and juggling around, while her face appeared in every room he manically opened. 

 

Sherlock felt his voice made a gurgling noise- why couldn't he remember the damn name?! His only friend- DEAD, DEAD because of her, because he had let her, because he allowed himself to love someone else. People DIED because of him. HE destroyed lives. Next to the destroyed remains of his mind’s secure system, he stumbled over abysses, abysses which had always been there, but usually the remained neatly tucked away in a shabby corner named “ _childhood_ ”. But in this state of utter distress, the dark gaping, ugly voids were everywhere.

 

... oh God, where was John?! (was that John's hand on his neck? Or was she choking him?) Why couldn't he find John's room? The room flooded with light, smelling of tea and gunpowder and woolly jumpers? Where was it? Why was everything black, thrown in utter chaos?! 

 

" _Who now will find him? Why, nobody will. Doom shall I bring to him, I that am queen_."

"Stop" Sherlock whimpered, begging his mind to cease the torture. But Euros sang, and sang and dead eyes smiled at him and he still couldn't remember the damn NAME (his knees scraped the ground, sharp stones ripped open his trouser legs. When did he kneel?) Still he couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't get OUT. Panic caught him like a powerful wave and for the first time in thirty years, the great Sherlock Holmes felt utterly terrified.

Which humiliated him deeply. He had tracked down Moriarty’s web, alone. He survived months of torture and pain, without ever being terrified for one second. Because he knew it had purpose for his work. He knew it was the right thing to survive, and he had been arrogant enough to assume (correctly) that he would. After all, Mycroft wouldn’t let him die. And he couldn’t die, not with John Watson waiting for him at home.

 

But this? This was different. Purposeless. Sentiment. Vulnerable. Things which don’t suit Sherlock Holmes very well. Desperately, he tried to grasp onto the corners of his mind palace, the corners which were falling apart, getting blurry; he really tried to claw into information he had collected, facts that made him feel safe, but everything started to fade away into a black sea of memories and another powerful wave pushed him under. He felt his own limps shaking, and strangely detached from himself, and he sensation he experiences was very close to drowning, he was drowning inside of his own head. His heart was exploding inside of his chest and the burning sensation made him afraid that he was dying.

 _Alone is what you have_. 'No" he wanted to say, but his voice didn't leave his lips. Instead, a strong punch of East Wind hit the air right out of his lungs. "I have John" He wouldn't die here alone (he heard screaming. Was he screaming?). The pressure on his torso intensified, as if someone was holding him (John? John...) He clung to the heavy sensation like one would cling to a lifebelt in the middle of the ocean.

 

The smell of cheap laundry detergent and tea cleared the fog over his senses enough to register that, indeed, John was there alive and well, and the scream indeed belonged to him. Only it wasn't a scream and more of a choked cry, muffled and raw with tears (When did he start crying? Sherlock Holmes didn't cry). Slowly, the blackness started to fade back into color, blurred edges once again became sharp corners and rooms, neatly organized mind-palace rooms. The white noise ceased more and more, until there was nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears.

The chaos was over. The rooms were no longer littered with dreadful memories and- oh! There was John's room! Open, filled with light and security Sherlock had never known before. It was over. 

 

Relief overcame him when he finally heard John's voice again, soothing and soft. "Breathe, Sherlock. I'm here, it's okay. Just breathe"

"John" he whimpered and slacked against the strong body of the smaller man like dead weight. He felt utterly cold and shaking terribly, but her voice was no longer in his mind. Slowly, his mind came back online (Case, late spring, probably around 6 in the evening, approximately a 20 minutes’ drive away from Baker Street, trauma-induced anxiety attack). Breathing irrationally hurt, but he tried it anyway for John's sake. There was a dull pain in his temples and the faint taste of bile in his mouth; but frankly it didn't matter, because it was real.

Carefully, he tried opening one sore eye and cherished the harsh evening sunlight that greeted his sensitive pupils. Tears embarrassingly streamed down his clenching face, but even Sherlock's ego suffered such a great shock that he momentarily forget to care about his pride. He hid his face in the crook of John's neck and inhaled deeply (wool jumper, old leather jacket, Earl Grey, Tesco soap, sweat, and _John_ ). He wanted to cry even more because he felt so safe in John's arms. The feelings which overcame in this moment were probably the strongest he ever witnessed since his childhood. Strangely enough, he felt a little bit like a child again when he hid in his best friend's embrace. The soothing touch relaxed him (Normally, the idea of other people touching him nothing but repelled him, unless these other people were John. John was the expectation for everything).

 

"John" he whispered again, voice small and teary. He didn't recognize this inflection of weakness. He wasn't used to being this flawed.

"Sherlock?" The tone of John's voice made him sob.

"I want to go home" he pleaded. "Please, I want to go home"

 

  
_The bitter pill I swallow_  
_The scars souvenir_  
_That tattoo your last bruise_  
_This impossible year_

 

John arrived at the scene just on time to watch Sherlock empty the contents of his stomach over a bunch of flowers. His professional doctor instincts kicked in instantly, although he was terribly worried about Sherlock (and scolded himself a little bit for letting the situation escalate this far, after all, he should have known). He announced his presence loudly, but his friend didn't seem to hear him. Carefully, he placed a warm and on the detective's exposed neck (skin ice cold, wet with sweat, obvious goosebumps). He applied a gentle pressure on a calming reflex zone, until the barfing noises ceased and gave way to hurried breathes. Sherlock didn't look at him, he heaved and held onto the wall for his dear life. Blood and dried pieces of paint dripped from his spastically clenching and unclenching hands.

 

John swallowed down his own panic, seeing Sherlock (calm controlled cool Sherlock) like this (a mess having an anxiety attack) was highly alarming. John quietly took the pulse (too fast), all while he whispered soothing nothings into the detective's ear. When he placed an arm careful around his waist (too thin), Sherlock's knees buckled and he feel very ungracefully to the ground. He didn't seem to mind, his eyes were pressed shut but the eyeball moved violently behind the soft skin of the lid, an indicator that he was lost somewhere in his big mind palace, and his desolate cries indicated he desperately wished to escape.

John wished he could just crawl in there and get him the fuck out, but he couldn't. All he could do was hold the shaking figure close to his chest and pray. He had never seen anyone cry so gut-wrenching. 

 

It wasn't the intensity of the emotion itself- the doctor had dealt with enough young men watching all of their comrades die and barely surviving themselves back in the army to know how much agony the human psyche had to endure. It was the sheer fact that Sherlock, of all people the one who denied the most human part of himself, was falling apart in front of him. John wanted to punch a wall and cursed the whole universe, and everyone in it who had ever hurt Sherlock. He wasn't fair, he mused. Sherlock was- well not sweet or caring, but Sherlock was a human after all; a human with a heart (although he'd deny it). He shouldn't feel this amount of pain. He should feel loved, because that's what he was (at least as far as John was concerned). He shouldn't hide and be afraid of his own sentiment, he should embrace it. Feelings shouldn't be this destroying. He vowed to himself, while drawing soothing circles on his best friend's shivering back, that he would show Sherlock. He would show Sherlock that it was wonderful to feel.

 

With a practiced motion, he took the detectives' pulse again (still too fast, but slightly better) and talked on and on, in hope that his voice could reach somehow inside the endless corridors of Sherlock's mind palace and help him to find the way out. Familiar sounds had always helped him with his PTSD attacks, so he figured it was worth a try. So, he just talked about everything and nothing, soothing and encouraging his distressed friend.

Finally, when the tense muscles of Sherlock's shoulders slacked; finally, when the terrified cries turned into quiet sobs, Sherlock's voice reached his ears. John huffed in relief and forced a smile on his face when he looked at the bundle of detective attached to his side. Although Sherlock didn't look up to meet his gaze, John noticed that his eyes were no longer closed tightly, but open, red-brimmed and wet.

"I want to go home. _Please_ , I want to go home" Sherlock nothing but sobbed into the already damp fabric of John's collar.

 

The doctor's heart ached a little at the feeble, broken tone of Sherlock's request, but he kept a straight face. Instead, his system filled with protectiveness and affection.

"I'll take us home" he promised. Right on cue, Lestrade approached, but halted some meters away from the pair. John guessed they were a strange sight to behold, but Greg was (no matter what Sherlock had to say about the matter) a smart observer. John was thankful that Sherlock didn't seem to notice the presence of a third party (and if he did, choose to ignore it). Instead, he huddled even closer to John (how that was physically possible was beyond the doctor) as if he wanted to hide inside of John's body. His large hands desperately clung to the jumper, as if he was afraid that John would leave him alone in these desperate times. John sought Greg's gaze and tried to communicate their dire need for a cab. The DI raised his eyebrows a little, but his eyes were filled with worry.  John gave him another pleading look, and Greg understood. He walked away wordlessly to hail a cab for them. The army doctor sighed, thankful for a friend like Greg.

 

Shortly after, the soft murmur of an approaching engine indicated the arrival of their ride to Baker Street.  "Sherlock, hey Sherlock" he gently nudged the taller man on the right shoulder. The sobbing had finally ceased and gave way to irritated, short, post-emotional overload breaths. John couldn't wait to get Sherlock some tea to keep him hydrated and a bed to get a good night's sleep.

 "Sherlock" he tried again when his friend didn't react right away. He sat a bit more upright (Sherlock tightened his grip on John's favorite jumper) and proceeded to stand up. The world's only consulting detective looked up at him (Since it obviously didn't occur to the self-proclaimed genius that he might needed to stand up as well in order for this to work) through a tousle of wild curls and gave him an utterly lost look, while still fisting the poor Jumper for his dear life. Gently, as gently as he could, John entangled his friend's grip on the fabric and took the large hands of a scientist, of a violinist, of a scholar in his smaller, sturdy, worker hands. He pulled until the tall body came to a wobbly stand.

"There we are" John smiled. Sherlock didn't look at him, but held his friend's hands just as tight as he had held the jumper seconds before. "C'mon" John managed to free one hand from the death-grip, but kept the other securely wrapped around Sherlock's cold palm. "Let's go home".

 

They held hands during the whole cab ride back to Baker Street. Neither of them felt the need to speak or look at the other; the silent presence was ensured by their tightly clasped hands. John was still angry. Angry about the whole fucked-up situation. _This_ is why parents should get their children tested. John liked the Holmes, he did, but he couldn't disagree more with their way of handling problems. He wasn't sure if Sherlock would be different, genius wise, if it played out differently years ago; but he was almost completely certain that life would be a little easier for his friend. But that was no use now, the damage was already done (although he would call Mycroft to have one hell of a talk with the British Government).

He flexed his un-Sherlocked hand, once, twice and breathed in the patterns his therapist advised him. He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand shyly, in a silent question. John squeezed back with a half-smile and felt his heart swell a little.

 

Sherlock wasn't an easy person, and extraordinary (in every sense of the word); and John sometimes just couldn't belief that he somehow managed to gain the trust of this particular man. The fall had proven that Sherlock's care could hurt like a knife to the chest, but the wound healed with the notion of the very concept of said care. Sherlock normally didn't care, but John picked up the little clues that he, old, dull, throughout ordinary John Watson, managed to break the genius’s barriers. In moments like these, the feelings that John very much did and acknowledged since the fall pushed themselves forcefully to the surface.

It was the moments where John asked himself if he loved Sherlock. Of course, he loved him, as a best friend, but somehow this status sometimes didn't feel like it was enough. After all, he had so many things to be thankful for, and if any other person evoked this amount of feelings in him he wouldn't have hesitated to take the relationship to the next level. But Sherlock wasn't any other person. Sherlock was different, so different and innocent in his own way, that John couldn't risc the fragile bond by rushing into things.

 

The sound of the breaks interrupted John's stream of thoughts. After paying the cabbie, he unlocked the door, and tugged Sherlock to their flat; all the while with a detective sheepishly trailing behind him (and _still_ holding his hand).

"Detach" he ordered gently once the door was closed. Sherlock gave him an adorably horrified look at the idea of ever letting his hand go.

"I can't make tea onehanded" the doctor explained, an amused smile playing on his lips. Who would have known that someone as arrogant and obnoxious as Sherlock could be this adorable?! Sherlock gave a curt nod (so tea it is) and clumsily shrugged off his Belfast. "Get changed in something more comfy, will you?" John requested from the kitchen, because Sherlock still stood in the doorway, looking a bit at his wits end.

 

John allowed himself some moments to compose himself when he was alone in the kitchen. The unlikeliness of Sherlock's behavior worried him. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought that Sherlock Holmes would seek bodily comfort (Sherlock didn't do touch), from him of all people. He exhaled loudly when the kettle beeped and rubbed his temples. His phone made a small sound, indicating a message from Lestrade. John unlocked the device with one hand and filled two mugs with the other (turns out he COULD make tea onehanded, after all). The message consisted of two words, probably typed in a hurry between paperwork.

'Explain. Now.- GL'

'Euros. Trigger. Small meltdown- JW' John typed awkwardly with one hand (How he wished Sherlock was there to witness his moment of clumsiness, he would have really enjoyed poking fun at him).

 'Is he alright?- GL' John smiled a little at the genuine concern. Although Sherlock never bothered to even learn his name, Greg had always been good to him. John considered thanking him for everything he's done for Sherlock, but decided against it eventually. It would seem pretty weird, no matter how close he and Sherlock were. The last thing he needed was people making up ridiculous rumors about their relationship status again!

'A bit out of it, but we'll get trough- JW'

'Take care-GL' And after some seconds: 'Information about the events will never leave this conversation- GL'

'Ta, Greg. - JW'

The doctor smiled a little more to himself when he put sugar in Sherlock's mug and some milk in his own. He would invite Greg for some pints once Sherlock was better.

 

When John finished brewing the detective's favorite blend, he entered the living room to find a very disorientated-looking Sherlock draped in his chair. He looked strangely out of place, all long limps in a dressing gown, and tousled hair, and wide eyes. He seemed startled by the soft sound of a mug colliding with the wooden surface of their table. It would take a piece of work to get Sherlock fully back to normal, John then realized. But he was up for the challenge, because he knew that Sherlock needed him to. The detective had lost control and his vulnerable side surfaced, so he needed someone to rely on; someone to help him figure this new situation out; someone like John.

"Drink" the John in question ordered without rigidity. Sherlock looked at him, insecurity still written all over his features. The doctor held his gaze persistent. He understood that Sherlock must be exhausted from feeling so many suppressed emotions and confused by most of them, but to figure this new situation out, the genius brain needed to be hydrated. Sherlock's hand flexed uncertain on his knee, jerking forward a bit as if he wanted to reach out for John, but was too embarrassed to do so. John understood that not only wanting but initiating physical contact was another completely new experience for the detective, but he was still more concerned about Sherlock's health. He nodded in the direction of the mug, and Sherlock huffed (a little more like himself), but nodded and reached for the tea.

 

When his friend had taken a few hesitate sips, John had mercy and opened his arms. "Come here?" With relief written all over his features, Sherlock hurried to the couch, right into John's embrace. John gasped, surprised by the fast impact of detective against his chest. Still, it was a very Sherlock thing to do. Sherlock didn’t do half-hearted, he put everything he had into every little task at hand. Hugs, apparently, fell under the same category. Sherlock not only accepting, but downright craving physical contact was something completely new to him too; although, John had to admit, he could get quite used to it. The tall man relaxed completely once he was curled against his friend's broad chest.

 

"Better?" John asked after the spend almost an hour just savoring the presence of the other. He felt Sherlock nod slightly against neck. The silence felt strange to John, tho. Although he didn't really notice, Sherlock talked almost constantly when he was out of his mind palace. About his deductions, about cases, about the stupidity of the rest of mankind; to John, to himself, to the skull. A silent Sherlock was a Sherlock he wasn't used to anymore. A silent Sherlock was just like a Sherlock that wasn’t comfortable around him, a Sherlock that wasn’t his friend. A Sherlock from all these years ago.

 

"Good" he mused and patted the whirlwind of curls appreciately (Sherlock let out a small involuntary sound, John pretended not to notice).

"Sherlock?" John asked, while eyeing a especially cheeky curl on the detective's forehead. "You don't have to answer, but ... it is...it would be important that you're honest with me. Can you do that for me, Sherlock?" A small nod against his skin. John took a deep breath before he addressed the elephant in the room: "The crime scene trigged some memories, right? It was about _her_ , right?"

 

A short pause, where John held his breath and hoped that he didn't push his luck too far (he was talking to Sherlock about sentiment, after all). Finally, his friend gave the slightest of nods and buried his face even further out of sight. Sensing the return of the discomfort, John soothingly caressed the silky fabric of Sherlock's favorite dressing gown.

"You don't have to tell me anything. Just know that if you want to talk, I'm here, yeah?" He felt Sherlock's lips move quietly against the crook of his neck. It was more of a mumble, a small sound of appreciation, but it was enough for John to make sure Sherlock understood. Another hour passed, where they stayed, absorbed into their own thoughts and still deep in the embrace, when Sherlock stifled a yawn.

 

 John coaxed his friend in drinking a bit more, before he shoved him towards his bedroom door. "Try to get some sleep, alright?" (the lack of protest was one more indicator that Sherlock was utterly out of himself after the emotional outburst). He opened the door and pushed Sherlock gently towards his big bed. He leant against the doorframe and waited for Sherlock to settle, but the detective only turned his head in his direction and gave him a pleading look.

"I'll be right upstairs if you need anything" John assured him, before he turned around, in his mind already between his soft sheets (hell, this day had really exhausted him. He was getting old).

 

His movements came to a standstill, when he felt something, someone, grip his hand with vigor. Surprised, John turned around again.

 

Sherlock was facing his naked toes and wiggled them sheepishly. The visible piece of his pale collarbone was tinted a light rosy. If John wouldn't know better, he'd say that Sherlock was embarrassed. But Sherlock was never embarrassed, right?

'Sherlock also never cuddles' his mind reminded him. 'Yet here we were'.

 

John blinked a few times and waited patiently for Sherlock to work out what he wanted to say. The genius was kind of at a loss for words, because he huffed and bit his lower lip.

"You don’t have to be embarassed" John tried to prove his hypothesis about Sherlock's current emotional state. "Whatever you want, it'll be fine".

 

At this, Sherlock looked up. Uncertainty was painted all over his features (so it was embarrassment, ha, call me the Sherlock Holmes of sentiment deduction!), which made him appear so much younger than the thirty something he was.  John gave him his most encouraging smile and squeezed the cold hand holding him back. Sherlock looked at him, huffed, looked at him again and then to the side.

"Stay with me?" he finally whispered, sounding small and vulnerable and devensive all at the same time. God, John had missed this voice!  "Please?" he added when John didn't respond right away.

 

Instead of answering, John Watson, national treasure and just the best darn guy around, tousled a mop of curls, walked to the bed, took off his trousers and jumper, and cuddled underneath the covers. "You coming?" he flashed Sherlock a charming smile.

Sherlock let out an unmanly sound of relief and huddled next to his best friend.

 

'Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do nightmares my ass' John thought, as he had already figured out the real motivation behind the unusual request. Sherlock was afraid of nightly terrors. But since John was an expert on those, he took the invitation and hoped that his nearness and warmth would help to keep them at bay.

John carefully draped the soft cover over both of them, before he instructed Sherlock to face the wall. Sherlock looked at his suspicious, but yelped with two strong army doctor arms wrapped tightly around his waist and drew him close to John's body heat.

"You don't have to be embarrassed to ask for these kind of things" John mumbled against the wild mop of curls, voice already slurred with sleep. "You idiot" he added, his tone warm with affection. Sherlock made a noise of protest (already a bit back to his old self), but John shushed him with a nudge of his chin against the slender shoulder blades.

"Wake me if there's something wrong. Now-" He yawned, and Sherlock joined in. "Sleep".

 

John huddled his face into the soft pillow that smelled deliciously like Sherlock and let out a content sigh. He was beyond relief that not only the day ended, but that it ended with a sleepy detective in his arms. He knew that he should mind. After all, they weren't in a romantic relationship (something John only considered in theory, since it seemed impossible in practice), and it wasn't usual behavior for mates to spoon their mates in bed. But he didn't. He just couldn't bring himself to care one fucking bit, because Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was alright, and in this moment Sherlock was _his_. The silence was soothing and relaxing, and John almost drifted off to sleep, when a soft, deep baritone voice broke the security of the night.

"Thank you, John"

 

 _There's never air to breathe_  
_There's never in-betweens_  
_These nightmares always hang on past the dream_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Impossible Year (Death of a Bachelor)
> 
> Kudos, Bookmarks and Comments are appreciated <3


	2. Approval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has never been looking for approval from anyone, but John.

_I love the things you hate about yourself_  
_Just finished the daydream_  
_Who were you trying to be?_

 

The first thing John noticed when he opened his eyes slowly was the absence of light in the room. His fondness of open shutters was a remnant of the long army nights under the stars. It was those nights where he learned to value the cold shimmer of moonlight and find peace in the bluish darkness of the evening sky. He never shut his shutters again, even if the hard ground of Afghanistan was nothing but a distant memory.

 

He closed his eyes and tried again- still, no light. Conclusion? Not his bedroom. He blinked, his mind still lulled in the drowsiness of one who had just awoken from his slumber. The first thing he heard was the chirping of birds reaching his ears. There was a tree in front of Sherlock's bedroom window, but no tree in front of his own. Conclusion? He was in Sherlock's bed. The realization made him slightly more alert, why was he in Sherlock's bedroom?

When he smelled the faint honey aroma of Sherlock's posh 30-quid shampoo, he finally remembered the events from the day before. Instantly, he turned, expecting the bed to be empty since Sherlock probably fled in shame because of yesterday’s vulnerability, but was surprised to find the other side of the bed still occupied.

 

Now, a sleeping Sherlock was a rare, but wonderful sight to behold. Endless limps tangled ungracefully between crumpled sheets, dark curls were sprayed all over the pillow (and their owner's face). They had increased almost ridiculously in length over the past months, now gingerly touching the young man's shoulders and neck. Although he liked to tease his companion about it, John secretly liked them that way. If only they weren't so damn tempting to just run your fingers through them all the time! A small bead of spit was forming right underneath the softly snoring mouth of the world's only consulting detective. In contrary to his controlled conscious self, Sherlock was a messy sleeper. John _adored_ it.

He watched the slender chest rise and fall in a clam rhythm and the usually tense features of Sherlock's face softened. The man looked younger this way, almost innocent. What a strange thought, to describe Sherlock Holmes, of all people, with the attribute "innocent". But then again, in his own way he was, wasn't he?

 

A man made up from contraries, a personality of dichotomy: Calculating, yet reckless; arrogant, yet insecure; brilliant, yet oblivious; all-seeing and yet so fucking _blind_.  A scientist, a genius, a hero in his own particular way and yet ... a child, driven by a need to understand the world around him, to understand the causal happenings of the whole universe, simply because he hated to not understand. A kind soul who pretends not to care about anyone or anything, but who escapes into the sweet lure of addiction whenever the world and his own existence gets too much. A scarred heart, controlled by a brilliant, yet sometimes cruel mind. A mind he seeks to always occupy so it wouldn't overwhelm him. Sitting in a golden cage to keep distance to everyone around him, because _caring is a disadvantage_. But Sherlock cared, John knew. Sherlock cared different than other people, but it didn't mean he cared less. The sheer vulnerability of the whole act just made it overwhelming to the sensitive detective. It is not easy to care, John fucking knew that, it was nothing but a risk, really, what a silly decision to trust anyone. But God, he _trusted_ Sherlock. God, how he cared about this impossible, insufferable, intolerable genius.

 

And thus, John laid there, in the early hours of the morning, neatly tucked in the soft bedsheets of his best friend and was overcome by a heavy emotion, so heavy that he was unable to move for some seconds. He would never be able to get away from Sherlock Holmes. Hell, not even death could stop his gravitation towards this fucking bastard.

Tea, and crimes, weird experiments, and body parts in fridges. Take-away and crap telly, and giggles at crime scenes, and shared smiles. The doctor loved it. He loved every single second of it.  John was _addicted_ to Sherlock's presence, the adrenalin, their life in 221B Backer Street. When he first joined the army, he had had dreams. Delusional, romanticized dreams to do good in his life, devote his talents to a higher good. Safe the world, so to speak.

Almost two decades later, he found himself constantly saving one ridiculous madman. Then again, it was kind of the same thing, wasn't it? After all, John was pretty positive about the fact that Sherlock Holmes somehow managed to become his world. He couldn't quite put his finger on the exact point in time where his addiction began, all he knew that Sherlock suddenly fully occupied his heart. Sneaked inside quietly, almost unnoticed and remained, against all the odds.

 

John eyed the ceiling some more and sighed eventually. He was being a silly old romantic again, wasn't he? But there was something about this damn Sherlock Holmes that made him weak. He spend enough time denying the blooming feelings in his chest (He called his glorious "not gay"-phase), and frankly he just grew tired of lying to himself after Sherlock had jumped off a fucking building. And now, he kind of acknowledged them, these strange, irrational, impossible feelings for his even stranger and even more impossible flatmate; but refused to show them. What would be the point of that, anyway? Sherlock wasn't interested.

But the last evening had felt _nice_. Save the heartbreak and the unbearable silence on Sherlock's part (John wanted to laugh at himself, for suddenly not wanting to shut that irritating, always deducing mouth. But he had missed the casual insults and observations about things only the genius seemed to see), of course. It felt even more than nice, if he was being honest. John found it fucking fantastic that Sherlock allowed him to take care of him. Every touch had been special and unique; an experience that most probably would remain a memory but nothing more.

John wasn't stupid (against Sherlockian believe) he knew that Sherlock normally didn't do touch. But that he had been allowed to fulfill this scarce need of encouragement, of adoration – to bring warmth to the attention-starved parts of Sherlock's psyche- was bliss in itself.

 

John had always been a physical man, who needed physical closeness to uphold a certain level of emotionality. But somehow Sherlock fucking Holmes managed to be an exception even when it came to John's preferences. The little touches and hugs (not to speak of the glorious-totally-platonic spooning incident from the night before) were enough to make him more giddy than he had felt with almost all of his former girlfriends. Always something special, that damn Sherlock Holmes. What a fucking tosser.

 

With a mildly annoyed groan, he eyed the sleeping figure of his object of desperation(/desire). Sherlock still happily snored on without a care in the world. The doctor felt his annoyance crumble almost instantly. How, for the love of God, how could a grown-up, crime hunting, more-brain-than-person lunatic be so adorable? John smiled warmly at his best friend, stretched and ruffled the mop of dark curls. The detective made a little mewling sound after being touched so gently, but didn't stir or wake. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mumbled affectionate before he left the room quietly.

 

 After making the first tea of the day, the doctor decided it was time to get out of his own head and into the matter. It was Saturday, so no surgery, which was rather fortunate. He wouldn't have liked to leave Sherlock alone right after his breakdown. He briefly wondered how Sherlock would behave after his obvious display of weakness. Would he be embarrassed? Lock himself away? Be insecure about it, uncertain? Would he grave more contact? Deny the whole thing? _Delete_ it?

John stared thoughtful into his mug. He wouldn't like the last option. He never liked the idea of Sherlock deleting anything remotely important that happened between them. But, so he decided, he was probably just being romantic again; Sherlock surely deleted a massive amount of data he and his not-genius brain deemed of importance. So, it didn't really matter if it would happen this time (Except it did matter, a hell lot).

Irritated with his overly sentimental mood, John pushed the half empty mug around on the table's surface. There was no use in predicting Sherlock's future behavior. If he knew one thing about the Holmes all together, it was that they never behaved as predicted.

 

The doctor stopped the movement of his mug abruptly when he remembered that call he promised himself he would make. Now, after sleeping a night over the matter, he still found himself determined to call Mycroft. He didn't actually know why exactly, really. Nobody on the whole planet called the elder Holmes brother voluntarily. When John had had the thought, he was angry and planned on voicing his anger to Mycroft. But now, he wasn't as angry anymore, instead he thought.

Mycroft was a strong connection to Euros, he was the link between the estranged siblings all those years without Sherlock being aware of it. He had made a lot of mistakes, a hell lot of mistakes. But, John had to give it to him, he always had been reliable. More than once and more than only frequent they had relied solely on Mycroft to somehow get them out of the trouble Sherlock managed to dive in head first. Despite his bullshit talk about affections (a matter so foreign to bother Holmes brothers as rocket science to him), he had proofed more than once that he cared about Sherlock. And for fuck's sake, they were _brothers_ , after all. John, despite all the troubles he had to face with his own, still valued the concept of family as something precious. Something utterly important. And Mycroft had been important to them. Hell, they probably wouldn't be alive anymore when it wasn't for the snide politician.

The doctor somehow felt in the pit of his stomach (and he believed his gut feelings to be accurate, despite of Sherlock's dismissive comments about bowl movements and superstition) that he had to call Mycroft to invite him over. To thank him, maybe. John wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the notion. Not in a million years he had thought himself to ever be in the position to not only actively call Mycroft Holmes, but more over to thank him for his thoughtful services. He must have gone completely bonkers. But....it felt right, right? John shook his head at himself. Even _he_ was becoming impossible these days.

 

But Mycroft had proven himself to be a good man. Probably a better man than most of the self-declared saviors and saints John had met during his years as army captain and doctor. Just like Sherlock, the elder Holmes cared differently, but he cared, and if only for his little brother. John chewed his lower lip deep in thought as he remembered the scarring day at the asylum. Mycroft had been ready to die for him. No, not for him, but _instead_ of him.

He had even gone so far in trying to manipulate Sherlock into pulling the trigger, to end his life- so the choice wouldn't hurt him so much. He had loved enough to make Sherlock hate him, would have given all of his life without a second thought. Just so that Sherlock could keep John in his life. Because Mycroft _knew_. He knew and he wanted nothing more than Sherlock's full and utter happiness. Another strong emotion overcame John in these early morning hours. He gripped his mug for support and took some deep breaths. His heart swell and felt tight with a strange mixture of emotions. He pinched the bridge of his nose a few times.

 

Once the intensity had faded a little, his trail of though shifted back to Sherlock. How the hell would Sherlock react if no other than the brother he loved to hate would appear on their doorstep; not out of pure spite but because John asked him to? He would most certainly feel betrayed. And sulk the whole day afterwards.

John smirked a little, for he knew how to deal with Sherlock's little temper tantrums. But, more importantly, would he care about John's value system? Knowing Sherlock, probably not. He would most possibly laugh, and dismiss it as stupid sentiment. Still....wasn't it worth a try? You only have one brother, even if he's shite at times. And Mycroft had moments that were so far away from shite, that John even felt a little sorry for thinking him such a nuisance at times. When all he ever did was _care_ , in his own twisted way! John really didn't understand why he had gotten himself so worked up over the matter, but he did. He thought, in a fit of early morning passion, that some of Sherlock's reservation towards sentiment and some of his fears concerning his past would be healed if he shared a moment with Mycroft (as far as two emotionally frozen aristocratic assholes could share an emotional concept like "a moment"). The idea was, frankly speaking, insane. But John's gut kept demanding him to pick up his phone.

 

After another 20 minutes of successfully talking himself into the idea, John felt confident enough to bring his plans into action. What was the worst that could happen, after all?

The moment the phone dialed it dawned on him. He was phoning fucking Mycroft Holmes. He was about to invite Mycroft fucking Holmes over for tea to talk about feelings. Despite all the heroic devotion, it was still _Mycroft_ none the less. And Mycroft alone was annoying enough, but Mycroft in combination with Sherlock was more than John's poor nerves could bear most of the time. God, that was a shit idea. God, it probably was one of the worst one's John's gut had had so far!

Shite. He had been so fucking confident about this one. And yet most likely so fucking wrong. But a soldier never backed down in the face of danger. Even if danger was the two most irritating people he knew stuffed together with him in a living room. _That_ was the worst that could happen. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe John Watson was an idiot, after all.

 

 _Then the time for being sad is over_  
_And you miss 'em like you miss no other_  
_And being blue is better than being over it (over it)_

 

Sherlock woke with a jolt. It took his pupils 0.2 seconds to adjust to the dim light of his bedroom. It took his brain 0.3 seconds to come online (curtains still drawn, small patch of sunlight, angle suggests it's between 10 and 11:30 in the morning). It took his memory 0.4 seconds to replay images of the evening before (trauma-induced anxiety attack, crying due to emotional overload (skin around cheeks drier than usual), bodily exhaustion, dry throat, higher body temperature due close approximately to another human being).

Instantly, he turned, and found the right side of the bed empty. John had left. Surgery? Unlikely, on a Saturday. Ashamed? Most certainly. Reason? Probably regret. John seemed to value his masculinity. Elaborate. Sleeping with close bodily contact to one's male companion was something considered out of the realm of manliness, at least for the vast majority of heterosexual males between 35 and 45. Not that Sherlock himself cared very much about society’s norms and labels, but he knew of John's utter fondness of them. So, a regretful emotion inducing his early departure from the bed was a very probable scenario.

 

He touched the still slightly warm surface of the covers (time of departure: approximately 1 hour ago) and felt something akin to sadness tuck at his chest. Interesting, but useless. Probably a byproduct from yesterday’s outbreak. Upon pondering upon the incident, he was unusually disappointed with himself. He should have known right from the start, but the strong influence of sentiment on the human brain somehow managed to slip his notice. He chose to ignore the unsettling air around the case, and as a result wasn't very much like himself the moment they entered the crime scene. Almost as if he failed to think properly. He had thought himself superior and he had been proven wrong. Sherlock Holmes had never been wrong before. He had made some miscalculations in his life, certainly (like, for instance, the time he got himself and John stranded with an empty petrol tank in the middle of the woods of Ireland), but never had he been so utterly _wrong_.

The closest thing to humiliation he ever felt made his skin crawl. The detective let out a theatrical groan. Enough of the emotional idiocy already, yesterday had been enough for a lifetime, as far as he was concerned. It was moments like these where Sherlock wished that the diagnosis of sociopathy wasn't just an excuse he thought of when he was a young and insecure man, struggling to understand his fellow humans and failing to care the slightliest about their moral compass. A sarcastic smirk fought itself on his face; for a person so opposed to labels he appeared to love hiding behind them. Sherlock Holmes, always the paradox- even to himself.

 

Sherlock's level of annoyance increased the longer his brain simply didn't let the topic of yesterday's weakness go. He let out another groan, louder this time, and slapped his face into the pillow to sulk for a bit. It had been a disaster. Sherlock snorted disdainfully when he pictured what a sight he most likely had been. All redundant body fluids and shaking limps and vulnerable noises. Like a child seeking comfort from his mother. (or in this case from his John).

 

The detective stopped sulking for a second when his thoughts wandered to the determining variable in yesterday’s disaster. _John_. Always the savior, always the doctor, always caring, never judging (never calling names, instead compliments and encouragement), the soldier in times of need, _Captain_ Watson if necessary, but never- never condescending. _John_. John always seemed to care. For others, for himself, for Sherlock's transport, his moods, his well-being. _John_. John never left, not even considered leaving, against all the odds (Sherlock was aware that he posed a rather terrible flatmate and an even more terrible best friend).

John was angry, quite often so; being a passionate and temperamental man – a man of the heart so to speak. Sherlock had been pretty sure that he didn't have a heart. He had been so confident about the absence of any traces of sentiment in his system (the metaphorical heart everyone thought he lacked), he had been so sure. Until that one question on that one faithful day stirred him, turned his whole existence upside down. 'Iraq or Afghanistan?' The look on John's face that day! Sherlock couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with this amount of unmask astonishment and admiration.

Even now, countless hours and failed experiments, carless dangers, almost deaths and temper tantrums later, his doctor still watched him with the gentle adoration that made Sherlock's stomach feel funny. Clients came and went, cases rushed by, experiments excited him and faded, but John stayed. John had been the one variable which never seemed to change in Sherlock’s life. Even after his 'death' the dear doctor didn't abandon him; he was reserved and angry, of course he was, but he didn't leave Sherlock alone. The silence and tension lasted a month or so, until John casually asked him what he thought about the title of his newest blog entry about their latest case ("The nightingale’s bride"- almost painfully romanticized, but I suppose it serves the clientele well, John') and gave him one of these open, warm smiles which seemed to be reserved solely for Sherlock. He tried to remain indifferent on the outside, but something in his gut twisted almost painfully when John finally looked at him again.

 

Something about John was different. People were usually reduced to cold facts by his brilliant mind, nothing but dull shells, open books with their petty hopes and dreams and values and feelings. But despite knowing him for so long, despite being closer to him than he had been to anyone, despite the insanely huge room he occupied in his mind palace; John remained a mystery. Confusing most of the time, with his complex emotions despite his shockingly simple preferences in life, changing from cuddly good-natured fellow to cold-blood soldier in 1,2 seconds, all contradictions and secrets, and yet so soothingly familiar. Yet so much... home. Sherlock hugged his pillow thoughtfully and wished for the split of a second that it was John. Until he came back to his senses and remembered that he was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes didn't do physical closeness (despite in times of dire need). Sherlock Holmes didn't need affection (right?). Right (Shut up). He simply refused to let John Watson take over another aspect of his (pre-John) so solid self-concept. The doctor owned enough of his exceptions already. His pride wouldn't lose another of his particular quirks to the charme of his flatmate.

 

Thinking of the flatmate, Sherlock became slightly aware of John's voice seeping through his door. He sensed no other presence, so a phone call it was. As quietly and as casual (in case he got caught in the act) as he could, the slender detective tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack, wide enough to observe the strong composure of his best friend and to eavesdrop the conversation he was having. His skilled eyes quickly made out the basic factors (called instead of being called, nervous about the interaction (highly unusual), a male counterpart; not too close but no stranger- maybe a fellow soldier from Afghanistan? A college from the surgery? Further collection of data is required). Sherlock made a small effort to hide in the shadows of the still mostly closed door (for John _hated_ eavesdropping, especially when Sherlock was the culprit), but watched with growing interest none the less. How could John possibly be calling?

 "No...as I was saying...could you stop interrupting me for a second, there?" John's voice was raised a little towards the end of his sentence, indicating a mild annoyance with the interlocuter. The detective smiled a little before he could stop himself.

 

He would never admit it out loud, but he felt highly intrigued by his doctor's tempter. The moment John Watson got lot in his own passions, every fiber of his form radiated power and dominance; a dominance Sherlock never thought he could find appealing, yet when it came to the ex-army doctor it was very much so. So, he watched, with a rare bright smile as his friend's composure slowly crumbled. He loved seeing John come undone when he harbored powerful emotions. When he realized he had been more staring than actually observing, Sherlock scolded himself mentally. Stupid sentiment getting him all worked up even the morning after. Still...the intonation of John's voice made him feel...something.

Something tingly and deep and basal, something irrational and stupid. The detective bit his lips in momentary feelings of a thing closely resembling guilt. Elaborate. a) John highly disregarded listening to conversations he intended to keep private, because John valued privacy. As a best friend, the social norm dictated to respect the things your friend values. Refutation: Sherlock Holmes was not one to care about social norms and John Watson was aware of it. b) Unsettling strong emotional reaction to his friend's slight display of passion and dominance. Elaborate. Collection of data to be postponed to a later point in time. Sherlock pulled a little at his curls to get his train of thoughts back on the right track.

The physical stimulus kicked in instantly but worked against the desired effect (Data: Memory. Collected: Last evening. Content: John playing with my hair feels nice. Connotation: SHUT UP). The man resisted to let out a huff when he vowed himself to clear his hard drive of all these useless sentimental thoughts he seemed to produce.

 

"This is about Sherlock, for fuck's sake-" By the sound of his name, the detective was jerked out of his momentarily trip to his Mind Palace. His ears perked up. He was the content of the mysterious phone call! This was getting better by the second, what a great puzzle to keep his mind occupied! He wondered whom John could possibly talking about him-

"Don't you language me, Mycroft-" Sherlock backed away from the door as if it suddenly set on fire. His face contracted in pure horror as he tried to process the momentarily rush of betrayal flooding his system. John was calling _Mycroft_. Mycroft, of all people. Just the thought about it made him sulk.

"He is your brother" A pause. (Sherlock considered bluntly storming into the room to prevent this treason)

"Because I care" (He vowed against it). "And I think it's a bloody brilliant idea" Pushed forward chin. Fumbling with his dress buttons. John lied. He really didn’t think it was a brilliant idea. Sherlock could see it on the tip of his nose. Considering the idea involved a call to his brother, Sherlock didn't beg to differ. He needed to have a word or two with John regarding the decisions of bowl movements.

"Listen, I know it's not your thing, - for the love of God _shut up_ – but it's important to me" John massaged his temples, a technique to calm his nerves adviced from his therapist. A small silence followed where Mycroft probably irritated his John with his tedious shenanigans. To Sherlock's surprise, a small smile of triumph appeared on the doctor’s face.

"Need I to remind you that Sherlock basically made me part of your wonderful family, dearest brother mine? Or shall I just start calling you petnames instead?"

 

It was a level of sass Sherlock didn't know John was capable of. He forgot to sulk for a moment, to let the deep affection he felt for that man in this very moment overtake him. His John was brilliant and eloquent, and even the tedious Mycroft couldn't scare him away! How lucky he was to have him in his life as his ... companion. Sherlock made a face. His thoughts were running wild this morning. This amount of sentiment in his system would most likely cause him to blackout any minute! It had to prevented at an instant.

 

"Alright, now you're just using fancy French words to annoy me, right?" John suddenly turned, facing the half-opened door. Sherlock made some panicked movements away from the door (finding him eavesdropping would not amuse John; and Sherlock wasn't so fond of John's fits of passion when he was at the receiving end). Regardless, he always seemed to underestimate the doctor's soldier reflexes, as John had already established eye contact before Sherlock could fully hide in the shadows. The detective cursed at himself for his miscalculation and mentally prepared for a sour-mooded John for the rest of the morning. To his great surprise, his friend only smiled at him and trotted lazily to his door, while Mycroft seemed to ramble on.

 

Gently, he pushed the door open and stood in front of Sherlock. The younger man cast his eyes down to communicate his confusion about John's emotional state, before he fixated John's blue eyes with a gaze that asked the silent questions he had been asking countless times in the course of their friendship: 'Did I do wrong? Are you mad at me?'

A byproduct of not caring for those around you was your trained indifference with regards to the feelings of others and the social appropriateness of one's behavior. Before John Sherlock didn't care, but now he did. He wanted John to like him, he wanted John to stay, to be praised by him. It was the only insecurity he allowed himself to openly display (without emotional breakdowns) when he openly searched for his only friend's approval.

 

John's eyes softened momentarily, when he replied with his standard gaze ('It's all fine'). What was new however, was the arm that stretched out to ruffle his curls. Sherlock's treacherous body reacted instantly and a soft sound of surprise and delight left his lips before he could stop it. Almost humiliated, he looked away, but made no effort to move his head away from his friend's palm.

"I have to hang up now" John mumbled, while he combed his fingers through the wild nest of hair affectionately. "See you in a bit".

Sherlock, lost in kind gestures or not, was still more observant than the average human being. So, naturally, he didn’t miss the implication of John’s last statement. And he didn’t hesitate to voice his disapproval.

“Good morning Sher-“ 

“No”

John stopped petting the dark curls (Sherlock discreetly swallowed down a whine) and gave him his best ‘no nonsense’ glare.

“I’m not debating about this”

“Excellent, because there is nothing to debate about. This visit is not happening”

John sighed. “Sherlock-“ he started.

“No!” the detective huffed, louder, with the air of a bratty child. John did not hesitate to call attention to this fact.

“I don’t want to see him”

“Well, too bad, you’re going to, anyway” Sherlock shot his blogger a glare which, he hoped, communicated his non-consent with this situation. “Since when are you on _his_ side?”

“’His side’?! C’mon, we both know that’s absurd”

“Then why did you invite him over?”

“Well, I….” Sherlock didn’t miss the momentarily hesitation. “Look it has been some shite months and we owe Mycroft a lot, and we both-“ He shot the detective a glare that clearly read ‘But especially you’- “haven’t been very grateful about it”

“Culturally constructed niceties; useless acts of sentiment, _dull_ ”

John frowned. “He’s your brother” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, communicating that he was well aware of the implications but didn’t care the slightest about them. The doctor let out a huff. Sherlock, now crossing his arms in his finest tantrum fashion, didn’t miss the anger slowly bubbling in John’s system. He felt a bit bad about it, he didn’t mean to make his doctor mad. Especially after he had been so nice and caring the evening before. But they were talking about a possible visit from _Mycroft_ …

“Sherlock” John said in his low, dangerous voice. “He will visit and we’ll express our gratitude. This man has put up with your bullshit since you were born, and _still_ saved your life countless of times -“

 

“Well, I didn’t ask him to save me, did I?!” John stopped his lecture to look at the younger man in disbelieve. The detective, by the time sulking and looking away, thought himself victorious when he was met with silence. However, Sherlock realized his mistake the second he met his friend’s eyes. There was a momentary flicker of an emotion Sherlock couldn’t quite place, before the doctor narrowed them to thin slits. How much Sherlock would adore the display of sentiment on the canvas of John’s face, not knowing what it meant, alarmed him more than he’d liked. It alarmed him so much, that he forgot to sulk for a second. He watched his friend take some deep, shaky breaths – a method to regain his composure – before his blogger closed his eyes and turned away from him.

 

“Fine” he mumbled. “Have it your way. Then only I have to thank him for that”

Before Sherlock could make a snarky remark or really any comment to save the situation, John was off in the kitchen, probably preparing himself some tea to calm down. The detective let out an irritated breath. All these…these social norms, and silly sentimental gestures... he couldn’t make a reason out of it. All he knew was that he somehow managed to upset John, which probably lead to less hair petting in the near future, which the detective very much pitied. He’d have to apologize eventually. But this action was so despite him when he didn’t know what he should feel sorry for.

 

He silently closed his door, put on his blue dressing gown and threw himself gracefully onto the bed to think.

‘Stupid Mycroft’ he thought to himself. ‘If it wasn’t for him, John wouldn’t be upset’

‘And you’d be dead by now’ The little John in his head unnecessarily provided.

Well. Technically that was true but… that wasn’t the point. ‘Right, the point is that you’re being a dick about something I care about, shutting the two people who constantly worry about you out’, Mind-John offered with a sly smirk.

“Get out”, Sherlock told the empty room warningly. “I’m trying to think!”

 ‘C’mon, Sherls, that’s an easy one!’

“If you call me ‘Sherls’ one more time, I’m deleting all of the Superhero-movies you made me watch!”

‘You wouldn’t’

“Don’t push your luck”

‘You wouldn’t, because you have a crush on Robert Downey Junior‘

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, I am Sherlock Holmes, I don’t crush on actors like some kind of- “

Mind-John silenced him with a chuckle. Things were so much easier with him. His eyes wrinkled a little at the corners when he smiled at Sherlock. ‘Stop bickering. You’ve more important things to do. The real me is just next door, angry and disappointed because you snapped at him when he was trying to help’

 

The real John wasn’t easy to understand, like his Mind-John was, Sherlock mused. Real John kept his thoughts and intentions private, he was an endless mystery the detective couldn’t figure out. Sometimes he would look at Sherlock like…. that. He didn’t know which emotion it contained, but its intensity never failed to make his heart flutter. Why, sentiment was a tedious thing.

He shouldn’t care, he was Sherlock Holmes! But when it came to John Watson, he cared very much so. He didn’t want John to be disappointed in him. He wanted John to like him, which was absurd in itself. Nobody ever liked him. He was an insufferable egocentric bastard, the kind of person you’d avoid. But not John Hamish Watson, no sir, who limped proudly into his life and refused to leave.

 

‘ _Because I care_.’ Sherlock blinked a few times and replayed John’s statement from earlier, until everything clicked into place. John was upset, because he _cared_ about Sherlock’s life! That in itself wasn’t a quite noteworthy revelation, John had proven this point during their years as flatmates and working partners countless of times. The new factor laid in Sherlock’s own exclamation. He had merely pointed out the fact that he technically never asked anyone to save him. He was perfectly capable of saving himself (most of the time).

But now that he thought about the semantic meanings behind his utterance, it became clearer by the second that John had taken a different interpretation route. ‘ _Then only I have to thank him for that_.’ Otherwise surely strangely flattered by the sentiment, Sherlock now wanted to bang his head against the wall. He hadn’t meant it like _that_!

But John was still remarkably sensitive when it came to the topic of Sherlock’s life and the possible absence of it (after the Fall, who could blame him?) and thus often took statements personal which Sherlock intended to be objective.

Damn John Watson, with his kind heart! Actually, hang on, more like: Damn Sherlock Holmes with his analytical brain!

 

Now that he located the source of the doctor’s negative emotions towards him, the next step should involve finding a suitable solution. Glad he actually found a reason, the detective added ‘apology’ on top of his imaginary list. He scribbled down ‘tea’ but crossed it out again, it was too plain, it wouldn’t do. John was genuinely upset. Not all the tea in the world could fix that. Same goes for ‘Buying milk’, although this one could at least be considered out of the ordinary. Before he could monitor it, ‘Hug’ was added to the list (Well, nothing wrong with that. Hugs were considered as a appropriate possibility to cheer up an upset companion. Shut up. I don’t want to hug John, shut up!) No, too much baggage with this one.

 

So, all what was left was…. Sherlock groaned. Playing nice at the visit of _Mycroft_.  It was the perfect solution, John would feel valued and respected. But…. _Mycroft_ …

Dramatically, Sherlock buried is face in the pillow which smelled like John again. Technically, it wasn’t much of a deal. He wouldn’t even have to talk, really. Still, Sherlock wouldn’t be a genius if he didn’t sense that yesterday’s events would play into the whole endeavor of this visit. John would probably want to talk about it. How tedious. How deeply mortifying.

 

The genius’ thoughts started whirling around yesterday’s attack, trying to find some logical connection between actually memories and panic-induced hallucinations.

He was aware they had forced him to delete her. They knew he could delete things; he had been extraordinary right from the beginning on. Psychology was an extraordinary force, with powers most people don’t even begin to grasp. Sherlock grasped it. He understood. But for the first time in all of his life, he had no desire to find out how the process had taken place whatsoever. All he knew (and felt safe knowing) he hadn’t wanted to forget, but they made him and the child inside of him didn’t know how and felt utterly betrayed, especially by his brother. Although they never were best friends, Sherlock guessed they must have been closer (according to the few fragmented memories of a time before the void and the way Mycroft kept saving his life.) Mycroft had always strangely valued his life (out of guilt, pure egoistic reasons. He couldn’t care for him. He was the one who taught him NOT to care), even in times when Sherlock didn’t care about it, times where the prospect of dying was a welcome relief to the prospect of living another day. Times where he desperately tried to fill the black voids in his mind with _something_. They made him feel confused and small, like a child lost in the woods. It had made him angry, not knowing why they were there. Now he knew… and wished he didn’t. Was actually glad that he couldn’t remember everything. Still…. Mycroft had lied to him. Why did that feel like such a grand betrayal? Maybe because it sometimes felt like he had deleted too much. Like he was now missing something…. important. A connection between the images his mind reproduced and the feelings that floated around unattached in his mind palace.

Something to make him… understand.

 

When Sherlock emerged from his deep musings, the sun hung low in the sky and voices seeped through his closed bedroom door. It was time.

 

_No one wants you when you have no heart and_  
_I'm sitting pretty in my brand new scars and_  
_You'll never know if you don't ever try again_  
_So let's try, let's try, let's try_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Halleluja (Death of a Bachelor)
> 
> Kudos, Bookmarks and Comments are very welcome! <3 Stay tuned for next time, for the infamous visit of Mycroft!


	3. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits. The brothers share a moment that was well overdue. John Watson saves the day once again.

_I may never sleep tonight  
As long as you're still burning bright_

 

It wasn’t awkward as John had anticipated. It was _worse_. Turns out, one does not simply invite the British Government over for tea to have a chat. Despite their conversation on the phone, Mycroft demanded instantly what it was that John and his little brother needed this time; and seemed genuinely surprised when John told him he was just here to talk a little about everything and nothing (hopefully getting Sherlock to express some gratitude). While he brewed some tea (the expensive stuff, not the cheap, embarrassing Tesco stuff he secretly loved) for himself and the confounded politician, John idly asked himself if anyone had ever bothered to spend some private time with the older Holmes brother. Does he have friends, a loved one? John, despite knowing the man for eight years, genuinely did not know.                                                                                While he placed some scones and jam on a tray (Mrs. Hudson, you’re a blessing), he realized that he seemed to know nothing about the man, who (despite his general appearance as a snobbish asshole) had saved their lives multiple times without second thoughts.

John’s determination to make some small talk shrunk profoundly when he approached Mycroft, who had seated himself on the couch with a little uneasy smile on his face.                                 “Here we are” he mumbled, plopping down in his chair with a muffled sound. He gave Mycroft a nervous smile, feeling the awkwardness stretching around this ridiculous scene. The politician took a sip of tea, seemingly recovered from his initial surprise, silently deduction John with an unreadable expression.

 “He is sulking, I’m presuming?” He motioned to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door with his teacup. Glad to have a conversation starter, John latched right in: “He’s in a mood”

Mycroft chuckled humorlessly. “Who would blame him? You invited _me_ over”

John shook his head, amused. “I know, quite a bummer. He might poison my jam as a payback”, he joked. Pleased with himself, he watched the older Holmes stifle a smile, just he realized he also never shared a genuine laugh with the politician.                                                                               For calling the man ‘brother dear’ only some hours earlier on the phone, he sure as hell wasn’t familiar with him at all. It was easy to be sassy over the phone, but this felt… different.

Probably sensing the doctor’s sudden uneasiness (it was an uncanny trait of all the Holmes, after all), the government official took the conversation in his own hands.

“Am I guessing correctly that there is some underlying motive to my visit?”

John momentarily looked caught in the headlight, before he coughed to overplay it.

“No, yes, maybe?” He sighed, taking an encouraging sip of his tea. “Yeah, alright, you’ve caught me”

The triumph on Mycroft’s face lasted only a second, before it made way to a concerned frown. “Is my brother… alright?” John sucked in a deep breath. Well, here goes nothing.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. You see, yesterday”-

  
They had chatted for roughly two hours; John explaining Sherlock’s emotional turmoil to his brother, and listening intently to Mycroft’s stories about their childhood, the issue with their sister and Sherlock’s problems with coping with any kind of emotional crisis. It became clearer by every word uttered by the politician that he not only felt extremely guilty for the psychological problems and therapeutic endeavors his little brother did undergo (although he was a child himself at that time!), but also for the detective’s multiple escapades with drugs (although it clearly had been Sherlock’s own choice).

It was a side of the elder Holmes John didn’t think he’d ever get to see; rueful, and quiet, open, and so shockingly human. He felt honored for the trust both of these peculiar brothers bestowed upon himself. His head actually started spinning a little, from a heavy emotion tugging at his heartstrings. How the hell did he manage to get into the life of this weird family and was allowed to _stay_ , John had no idea. He used some gentle words, which hopefully showed the government official that he shouldn’t feel as guilty as he did, and at the same time expressed his deep fondness for Sherlock. They at least weren’t dismissed, which John interpreted as a success.

 

When they both reached their third cup of tea, there was a small comfortable silence that came with having a honest conversation that had long been overdue. John felt like he understood both of them so much better, for which he was thankful. Speaking of thankful…                                               

 “Thank you, by the way”                                                                                                                   

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, amused.

“You know, for saving our lives. For keeping him safe when he was …. Away” The doctor cleared his throat. “I know it seems like it’s not appreciated, but…it is” John finished kind of lamely. It was quite obvious that genuine expressions of emotions also weren’t his strong suit. The condescending smirk on the politician’s face softened. “It’s a personal concern of mine, Doctor Watson.”

“Please, it’s John for friends and family”

Mycroft’s lip curled in a tiny amused grin. “Not many people are this eager to be considered as an acquaintance of the Holmes family”

John actually laughed out loud at that. “Well, there’s an expectation to every norm”

John didn’t miss the tiny smile flashing over Mycroft’s face and the way he subtly touched his left ring finger (more precisely the decent golden band situated there, something John had never observed before. Had it always been there?)      

“Indeed” the older Holmes mumbled. John, now a little more at ease with asking personal questions, nodded towards the ring.

“Who’s the lucky one?”

The politician gave him a playful grin, which made him look much younger and much happier than John had ever seen the so-called _ice man_ before. It may take a while to break the shell of a Holmes, but the reward of getting a glimpse into their ‘human’ side was worth it.

“Governmental secret”

John now laughed freely, almost dropping the scone he had buttered himself moments before.

 

“He’s been married for ages, took you long enough to figure it out” rumbled a low voice right next to John’s ear. The doctor jumped at the sudden appearance of his best friend (always as quiet as a cat), and turned himself just in time to watch Sherlock steal his scone and take a hearty bite.

“Oi! Get one of your own, you thief!”

The detective only gave him an overly sweet, buttery smile; before he gracefully threw himself in his chair, to stare at his brother with an unreadable expression. Immediately, the playful air changed in the room, to something more tense. Mycroft nodded soberly, acknowledging his brother’s presence.

“Brother, dear”.

 Sherlock just turned his head, studying both men with his quiet, deductive expression. When he finally spoke, his voice lacked its usual bite: “Thank you. For what John said”

His eyes flickered momentarily to John, seeking his friend’s approval and visibly glowing under the doctor’s approving nod. Mycroft was seemingly baffled for the second time that day.

“Oh, don’t give me that look; it’s not _that_ unusual” the detective mumbled.

“Perhaps” the older Holmes cleared his throat, a clear sign that he was nervous. Never thought John he’d see the day where the British Government was nervous.

“I should join into… saying things we usually leave unsaid” Sherlock raised his eyebrow in an attempt to appear indifferent and bored, but there was a vulnerable glimmer in his eyes. It was the same kind of vulnerability he had worn all evening of the day before.

Mycroft drew a shaky hand through his auburn hair. “I’m sorry” the heartfelt exclamation was so unexpected in phrasing and intonation, that Sherlock forgot to play his usual self for a moment. Instead, he sat upright, slightly gaping at his brother.                                                                    

“What?” he asked, also momentarily forgetting that he dreaded repetitions.

 

The statement had caused something to shift, he could feel it fluttering in his chest, similar to the way he had felt the day before, yet so very different. The way his heart suddenly clenched made him feel…. Vulnerable? Young? He wasn’t used to register so many emotions, and those were heavy and huge and overwhelming. He found himself once again at a loss of what to do about them. But at least now, he wasn’t hyperventilating and throwing up all over the place.

 

The look on Mycroft’s face was filled with a distant sadness; the melancholy of a burden shouldered and never taken away again.

“I’m sorry I let them hurt you”.

 

Sherlock stared into this face; this stupid annoying pitiful face of the meddling, cold, unbearably sad looking git; the face he wanted to scream at, the face he always sneered at, the face he couldn’t stand on most days … and …. didn’t. The need to make his displeasure known, to be mad at his brother for lying to him, for being so condescending and controlling, for leaving him and still pretending that he had any control over his life... the idea of fulfillment didn’t make him satisfied. He had felt so much anger, so much frustration over the years; nicely built up and directed at his brother- the man right before him, who clearly looked anything but hate-deserving right now. He had searched a culprit all along and found it in the only person he allowed near enough to actually be a target- and Mycroft took his faith enthusiastically, as if punishing himself for mistakes he didn’t even make. Of course, he didn’t make them…. He had been a child, damnit. Why… why had he been angry at his brother all the time? He couldn’t safe him from the coping mechanisms, which had been chosen for him and he later on choose for himself. It was easier to direct self-hate at someone else, but also so wrong. So damn _unfair_. Mycroft clearly was bothered, upset and deeply guilty – of course he had observed before, but he refused to see- because it always had been so damn easy to blame all the bad things in his life on Mycroft. And Mycroft swallowed it all, obediently taking all of his hate and anger, and still came running after one single call.

 

Sherlock Holmes had been called an asshole countless times in his life- but for the first time since he could remember, he actually felt the consequences of his poor treatment of others.

 

The politician already put is icy mask back on, and was already in the middle of standing up, with a forcibly polite “It is getting rather late, I shouldn’t take up any more of your time”, when the unexpected happened. John Watson vowed to mark the day in his calendar.

The day where he witnessed Sherlock Holmes, self-declared sociopath and general git, pulling his brother Mycroft Holmes, condescending politician with a dislike for people, into a hug.

Clearly it was the first show of affection in ages, if Mycroft’s rigid posture and comically wideness eyes were anything to go by.

“I’m sorry I hurt you”.  Sherlock’s voice was muffled by the thick material of his brother’s expensive overcoat, but the statement hung in the air with all its gravity nonetheless. Hesitantly, the government official placed his hands on his brother’s bony shoulder blades. Something about their position made Sherlock seem so… small.

“Caring is a disadvantage that comes with a lot of risks. I’m not afraid of taking them”

Sherlock only exhaled heavily against the soft fabric. He had missed this. He didn’t know he still harbored these desires to be wrapped in safety and security, but now they reminded him of…. Easier times… where affection was given, and he felt more than just a strange mixture of exhaustion and constant attention…where his brother had been My, where they had been friends, where feelings were not a strange concept.

 

They stayed wrapped up for some minutes in probably the weirdest embrace John Watson had ever witnessed; and certainly, the longest time he witnessed Sherlock sharing human contact while being in his right mind.

“I want to remember… please?”, he finally mumbled- his voice still held its deep baritone rumble, but otherwise sounded much younger, almost childlike. Because all this time, when he desperately searched for something to fill the holes in his memory, all he had to do was simply _ask_ ; something his self-destructive pride always opposed. A sense of relief filled him when he finally let go of the restraints he had set himself, for no apparent reason, other than he was able to.

 

John watched silently as Sherlock entangled himself from his brother; his face open and almost…. Shy? Mycroft’s icy mask had melted once more, and the smile he gave his brother was the most genuine John had ever seen. It was the closest to a ‘You’re forgiven’ they would ever get.

He was glad; they talked and were honest with each other, like he hoped they would, yet he knew that the tenderness of the moment was fragile and fleeting.

He sat there in his chair, blessed with the magic of the rare air of family in their flat.

 

“That could be arranged”

The light, yet so calming familiarity of the politician’s posh tone, shook the graveness out of the atmosphere. They wouldn’t change. They would continue to bicker, Mycroft would continue to meddle, Sherlock would continue to sulk. Yet something small, something almost invisible to the untrained eye (luckily, John spoke “Holmesian” fluently), had shifted. It was lighter, lined with a mutual understanding, that despite the teasing and arguments, they cared. It always had been there, lingering just underneath the surface. Good things sometimes needed a little push in the right direction. Good thing, John Watson was brilliant at pushing.

 

It was delightful. Never in a million years would John have dreamed of calling anything involving the Holmes’ brothers as anything more uplift than ‘mildly annoying’. Yet here he was. Drinking tea, pretending not to watch the usual pair look through photographs and drawings Mycroft had saved before the fire; quietly recollecting all the information Sherlock had been missing.

His favorite so far included learning that Sherlock had been obsessed with pirates and space, thus resulting his strong determination to become a ‘space pirate’ some day.

 

Just as he learned that Sherlock somehow managed to delete the taste of ice-cream, he excused himself to wander to the Tesco’s around the block, to reminisce the experience (because ‘Honestly, Ice-cream, Sherlock! Unacceptable!’). He took a few calming breaths in the warm afternoon air. That worked better than anticipated. Way better than hoped, even. The sight of the two idiots finally working out their issues made him extremely proud. Technically it was wrong to mingle like that, but he couldn’t bring himself to have a moral crisis about it. It had worked, didn’t it?!

 

To celebrate the fact that _clearly_ , John Watson had once again saved the day; he bought a big tub of mint ice-cream (his favorite), along with Sherlock’s (and tentatively Mycroft’s) requests. Just as he turned the key in the lock, he was met to the idly repetition of the planetary mnemonic, the one they taught children in pre-school. John bit down on his bottom lip to not laugh out loud; it was almost impossible to think of a Sherlock Holmes with actual knowledge about our solar system. He silently scooped up a huge serving for each of them, placing the bowls in front of the totally grown, but sometimes so delightfully childish men. He was just about to excuse himself off to his bedroom, suddenly feeling like an intruder to the intimate scene.

His heart did a funny fluttery thing when the detective, while never ceasing his conversation, grabbed his wrist and showed him gently but persistent down in his chair. The hand on John’s wrist stayed for good measure, until the doctor subtly patted it, signaling that he affirmed the silent request to stay. Who was he to refuse?

Mycroft eyed the exchange knowingly, but didn’t comment. John, feeling mildly embarrassed, proceeded to stuff his face with ice-cream.

_If I could trade mistakes for sheep_  
_Count me away before you sleep_  
_I'll stay awake 'til I trade my mistakes_  
_Or they fade away_

 

Later that day, John Watson congratulated himself on a job well done. Mycroft had left eventually, after filling all the blank spots in Sherlock’s memory. The more they reconstructed, the more at ease the younger brother seemed to become. Even the ice-man gingerly melted from time to time, when he retold a silly childhood story or shared a memory of their beloved grand-mére.

 All the while, John was a silent observer; a gentle presence, a grounding variable.

He also gained a lot out of the afternoon, felt suddenly so much closer to the weirdly wonderful Holmes brothers. John felt grateful to be accepted to witness the vulnerable side of Sherlock once again; he found it strangely endearing like any other part of the utter madman- Dear God, he was totally gone on the detective. One hundred percent enamored. What a beautifully frustrating mess.

 

It was the first time on a long while- since the asylum – that Sherlock picked up his violin again, shortly after Mycroft had left. The doctor put down the novel he had picked up, to watch the extraordinary genius get lost in his own melody. The younger man kept his eyes closed, as he gently let the music float through him.

Music. One of his many escapes- clearly less destructive than some of his other habits. This, however. This wasn’t about running away. Not anymore. After Mycroft had helped him (a sentence so foreign, even in his mind), a weight slowly had been lifted his chest. Like a coil, slowly loosening its deadly grip around his mind. He understood. Himself. His past. His… urges, and needs, and... _feelings_. What a peculiar experience.

So now, when he swayed gently from side to side to the soft melody, a rare sense of…. Freedom filled him.

 

He turned and caught his best friend’s eye, which wrinkled happily at the corners when their gaze met. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back, the sense of freedom suddenly accompanied by a deep fondness for his doctor. _His_ John Watson. His best friend. His …. Bow slipped at the sudden change of thought, distort the note. John laughed gently; and just like that the intense moment was gone. Sherlock cleared his throat, to overplay the lack of concentration.

“I’m ordering Chinese. You’re eating” The doctor informed him good-naturedly on his way to the kitchen; ruffling through the wild mane of black curls when he passed. Sherlock’s face crumbled momentarily in an expression of pure delight, before he caught himself; overplaying his obvious reaction.

 

John did pretend to not notice (of course he noticed); and later when they laid on the couch to indulge in some crap telly, John ignored the subtle shuffling beside him, until suddenly a forehead nudged against his thigh. The doctor looked down amused, watching Sherlock’s oblivious façade and persistent nudging for some minutes.

Finally, he took mercy and just as subtly placed a hand against Sherlock’s head; first only cradling the scalp, but increasingly scratching and tousling the surprisingly soft curls. Sherlock closed his eyes in bliss, exhaling with a sound which sounded like a mewl. At first, he did seem to care what the doctor thought of him, but the longer they sat there, the more relaxed his whole body felt. It was a warm tingle, starting at his fossils, gingerly moving up and down his limps, his spine, his neck. Had he known that it could feel this heavenly to be touched by John (not anyone, _his John_ ), he would have initiated it ages ago.

He was just slightly dozing off, face pressed against the softer part of John’s stomach, when his make-shift pillow moved around a little bit, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock didn’t even have to open his eyes to know it was a text message from John’s sister; probably something about the on/off marriage with her spouse, or something equally mundane. John chuckled quietly, shaking the bundle of detective attached to him in the process.

 

As he typed agonizingly slow (John and technological advances- a never-ending journey of discovery), Sherlock started contemplation about the domesticity of the situation they found themselves in. It was oddly…. nice. He wouldn’t mind integrating this in their everyday lifes. Which was strange. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t fond of…. people. Of…affection. Of…touching in general.

Yet, he was so very much fond of John Watson. And his affection. And his touches. It should worry him far more than it did. Something shifted in their dynamics, subtle at first, but slowly impossible to ignore. The doctor skillfully coaxed him out from behind the walls he carefully built around himself, and Sherlock felt…. relived about it. John saw him. His experiments. His intellect. His quirks. His vulnerability. He saw this whole mess that composed Sherlock Holmes, and… smiled. John Watson was too good for this world. And _far_ too good for a madman like him. Better keep him close until he noticed.

 

John’s soft voice pulled him out of his head. “Harry says hi”

“Does she now?” he mumbled, voice low and pleasant against John’s stomach. The doctor smirked (Sherlock could _hear_ it)

“If you read somewhere between the lines of ‘Is the lunatic still keeping you occupied?’”

He laughed, delightfully shaking Sherlock again. The detective smiled a little, despite himself.

“She doesn’t really like you” the doctor added good-naturedly.

“That’s the common response” John carded his fingers through the mahogany curls, and there was a small silence for some minutes.

 

“I like you”, he finally said, almost casually. Sherlock tensed, only for a split second, until he relaxed again. It came as a small shock, this open expression of sentiment, not that he didn’t… know. It just wasn’t something they usually said.

Unable to find a fitting response, Sherlock settled for witty humor (After all, he could be hilarious if he wanted to be!): “You’re one strange individual, John Watson”.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t that witty. Or hilarious. But it did the trick of overplaying Sherlock’s increased heartrate. John always saw, he didn’t observe. Surely, he wouldn’t observe this time, as well.

Shyly, he peeked up to gauge the doctor’s reaction, but the older man was already focused back on the telly, chuckling quietly at their antics. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to his own heart flutter in his chest, while he buried his nose a little deeper in John’s soft jumper, calming with every breath that extended the midsection of his best friend. While the telly quietly gurgled in the background, and John idly played with his hair, Sherlock allowed himself to feel safe and secure and cared for. For the first time in a long time, he dozed off in front of the telly, with a smile on his face.

 

 _So let me save you_  
_Hold this rope and I'll pull you in_  
_'Cause I am an anchor_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Trade Mistakes (Vices and Virtues)
> 
> I'm late this month, appologies! Yet, here it is: Mycroft's anticipated visit. I realize that,  
> a) Sherlock and Mycroft might be a bit out of character in this one; but bear with me. I just realized that I didn't want to write another heavy, kind of sad chapter, and proceeded to create something light and heart-warming instead.  
> b) If all this talk about vulnerable mind-sets reminds you of age-play stories, that's not really what I had in mind for this story (It's just not my cup of tea). However, if it's your cup of tea, and you are interested in writing anything in this direction based on this story here, let me know. I'm not opposed, as long as I'm credited. Always excited to read and discover new things!
> 
> That's all y'all!
> 
> Ps: Please leave a comment and kudos; let me know how you enjoy this story so far. I already have a pretty straight plan where I want to go with it; and I'm happy for every single one who's joining on the way.


	4. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an exciting case, things get heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing something smut-related. It's a learning process, I guess.

_So, tell me right now.  
You think you're ready for it?_

„Sherlock, I’ve got him!“ His voice was raspy, because of the exertion of the tackle he just performed; his thighs hurt like hell, because of the hellish sprint; and he was soaked right to the bones, because he had been sweating like crazy. Yet, John Watson couldn’t remember a moment during the last few weeks in which he felt more _alive_.

The suspect was fighting against his hold, but the doctor had him in a steady grip, displaying his superiority in strength. Adrenaline was rushing through his system, making him feel alert and giddy and so damn powerful. He had missed this. Damn, how much he had missed this.

 

The last two weeks had been quiet, without exciting cases and much too much time to think, to mop around, to worry about Sherlock’s breakdown, about his role in this all, about what it meant for the dynamics of their relationship. Sure, he knew that he was in love with Sherlock (he came to terms with calling it that roughly three days prior, when he realized that he passed the point where he would have been able to lie to himself about it), but did Sherlock know, too? Did Sherlock _want_ to know?

And what the hell was he feeling, anyway? Unlike the genius, John couldn’t determine someone’s emotional history right off their shoelaces. He was playing the guessing game here, and although he opened up considerably, Sherlock was still unreadable at the best of times.

 

Shortly after Mycroft’s visit, they had started to share a bed.

It was nothing either of them felt the need to discuss, it just sort of happened. At first, the detective just quietly slipped into John’s bed when he thought the doctor was fast asleep, to curl up behind him, sometimes fisting his hand in John’s shirt. They doctor pretended not to notice, pretended to be asleep (although he was 98% sure Sherlock knew that he was just faking it), pretended that his heart wasn’t beating in his throat every time they shared some casual touches.

 

After a while of this back and forth, John decided his single bed was becoming too small for two people sleeping in it on a regular basis, so instead of retiring to his own room after going through his bedtime routine, he went to Sherlock’s room. The first time, the detective was absolutely baffled, a remark possibly already on his lips, but something in John’s easy smile and the way he cuddled closer into Sherlock’s expensive sheets, stopped him.

 

If John wasn’t going to comment on this, then he wouldn’t be, either. He was aware that they passed the line of platonic friendship at some point, but he didn’t really understand the realm they currently walked in. All he knew it was fragile, and big, and so very _important_ , that he didn’t want to loose it. Loose John…

 

Who was he kidding, he would -undoubtedly! - loose John at some point, because nobody in his right mind would want any kind of deeper _relationship_ with someone like him. The problem was, that he let himself become attached to their new intimacy; found himself more often than not pulled to bed, not because he was tired, but because John was there; he found himself noticing small intimate things about the doctor, like the small snores he made when sleeping on his stomach, or the roughness of his voice right after waking up; he found himself wishing that they would also share this closeness in the day light, because every morning felt like a reset to the way they used to behave around each other.

Sherlock wanted this. Everything. John Watson; at every hour of the day.

 

It was infuriating. It was almost impossible to ignore it. He was used to supress his emotions ever since he was a child, but thanks to stupid (wonderful), dull (funny), annoying (charming) John Watson all the secure walls he had built around himself were breaking down. These walls were meant to protect him. From people who would not understand him. From himself, for he (most of the time) didn’t understand himself.

But now, all he could think about, all he could _wish for_ was the army doctor- in his bed, out of his bed, in his heart. The intensity of it all was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Truly, and utterly terrifying.

 

That they didn’t talk complicated matters. Sherlock wasn’t sure where they stood anymore. John remained the greatest mystery he’s never going to solve. John and all his complex emotions, emotions he never shared, emotions that kept the detective guessing, and worrying, and _hoping_.

 

This intense session of lamenting about his own complex emotional state and the inability to tell John’s motives increased until they almost happened every night. Most of the time, the doctor just left him to it, fondly shaking his head at the over-working genius (for he didn’t know that he was the subject Sherlock was contemplating) going to Sherlock’s / their bed alone (the most disappointing nights were those when he would wake up in the morning and find the space next to him still cold and unoccupied).

 

On other nights, however, he would re-emerge again around 3 am (sometimes there were traces of a nightmare on his form, sometimes Sherlock would pick up the clues that he hadn’t been sleeping at all) and hug the detective lazily from behind. Sherlock would always tense the first second into the touch, and then relax completely. This was still new for them, and didn’t take place often (too seldom, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Although he still wasn’t sure how to ask for this kind of thing without appearing pathetic. So, he didn’t.). Yet there was something tender, and utterly familiar about the gentle pressure of John’s hands on his torso, or the warmth that radiated from him, warming the detective’s back in a soothing way. John would stay like that for some second, and Sherlock would let him; just savouring this close contact, this moment of affection and tenderness, and peace between them.

Then, John would turn his head, to rest it in the crook of the geniuses’ neck, to whisper a soft “Come to bed” in his ear.

And Sherlock’s brain would go offline immediately when John used _that_ voice, so he let himself be lead to his bedroom.

In those nights, the gravitated together easily, in a sleepy embrace, and unspoken statements of affection were shared, and for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes realized that he wanted to share so much more with another human being. Things like kisses, and touches, and promises. Things he thought himself above of. Silly sentiment. Just a mixture of hormones, being transmitted from the brain. Animalistic. Simple chemistry, nothing more.

That didn’t stop him from _craving_ it, though.

 

_I wanna know_  
Why you got me going  
So let's go

 

When Lestrade had the suspect in cuffs, both of them were in high spirits. The chase had been tiring, but exciting, left them filled with adrenaline and a deep satisfaction. Sherlock’s head was clearer than it had been in days. A good case really solved all problems.

 

Up to the point where it didn’t. Lestrade had shushed them off into a cab (after John had broken his own “don’t giggle at crime scenes” rule), and it wasn’t until he realized the close proximity of the army doctor that he reached that point. He had been fine, and there hadn’t been any late night cuddles the last week, so he had been dealing pretty decently with the apparent…. _Attraction_ he was nursing towards his blogger.

 

But in the enclosed space of the cab, his senses were heightened. The strong smell of the other man’s sweat – earthy, and musquy, and John – reached his nostrils, and he really shouldn’t find the sensation in any way pleasant, but he _did_ \- it was intoxicating, like everything else about the army doctor.

He closed his eyes, tried to stop breathing through his nose, but he found himself sucking in the smell greedily. The sound of his own elevated breathing was unpleasantly loud in his own ears, he silently hoped that John wouldn’t notice. He almost jumped when a warm hand touched his thigh. John noticed.

 

“Are you okay?”

‘No, do you mind stopping being so damn… you for a minute?!’

Sherlock turned his head to give his best friend a convincing ‘I’m fine’-look, but realized his mistake immediately when he took in the doctor’s appearance.

 

His cheeks were flushed rosy, and his eyes shone bright, the pupils slightly dilated from the excitement of the chase, and that honest smile had Sherlock forgetting how to speak for some seconds. This was stupid. He was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes didn’t get dumbfounded by attraction. Not even if it was attraction for John Watson.

 

“Sherlock?”

“I’m alright, stop worrying, John, why wouldn’t I be alright? I’m fine, right as rain” the detective rambled- too quickly, too high pitched, too hurried to be convincing. John gave him a funny look but didn’t push the matter.

 

Sherlock, however, wanted to bang his head against the window violently. He was used to this intense emotions in the safe space of his (their?) bedroom or hidden away in his mind-palace, but having them now out in the open _in front of John_ was not only unsettling, but also downright humiliating. He had been humiliating himself a little bit too often for his taste lately. However, he couldn’t concentrate enough to put his indifferent mask back on. Not with John’s hand not leaving his thigh the entire ride home.

 

The exit out of the cab and arrival in the flat went by in a blur, for Sherlock managed to work himself in a state of nervous excitement, that left his heart pounding faster and his whole body felt like it was on _fire_.

By the time he hung up his coat with trembling hands, he was sure he had lost his mind. To overplay the violent flips his stomach was performing, he went into the kitchen to make tea, for tea seemed appropriate to soothe his nerves. He threw two teabags into two mugs angrily, while the kettle beeped at him.

Not even a month ago, he didn’t get nervous at all, and now he was getting nervous for no apparent reason. He didn’t sign up for this.

 

He filled John’s mug to the brim –

“You’re acting funny, today”

\- and almost spilled hot water all over himself. He cursed, silently, moping at the hot fluid on the counter.

 

John walked over from his casual position in the doorframe, to helpfully fill the detective’s cup. Stupid John. Always being helpful and considerate. This would be a whole lot easier if there wasn’t so much to admire about his blogger.

“Thanks for the tea. I think I might skip dinner. I’m rather knackered”

 

 It was late, Sherlock now realized, late enough that it would be time to go to bed soon, and he as a grown-up man and the world’s only consulting detective shouldn’t be looking forward to something as dull as sleeping. But he was, because sleeping always involved John in his bed. They didn’t cuddle all week. The thought that had seemed reassuring in the cab now suddenly made him feel upset and longing, like he had been missing it. Of course, he hadn’t. He was Sherlock Holmes. He hated human touch.

 

Well.

 

This proposition held approximately 20 seconds more, until the army doctor gently patted him on the back, and Sherlock found himself _melting_ into the touch.

“You’re sleeping tonight” John informed him, conversely, while he started to rub small circles over the detective’s tense shoulder blades. The touch sent tingly waves all through Sherlock’s body.

 

“I’ve missed you the last three days” All he could do was nod, dumbfoundedly, while a blush rose to his cheeks. It’s been the closest that they ever came to acknowledge this arrangement (when it wasn’t 3am) between them, and it felt _important_.

A thousand thoughts rushed in the detective’s mind, like being considerate and sweet, to tell John confidently that the sentiment was reciprocated- yet all he could do was look kind of sheepishly and let the doctor massage his back.

 

“Do you mind if I take the first shower? I feel disgusting” John continued in the same, light tone- like something significant hadn’t just shifted between them, like this was supposed to be _normal_ for them now.

Involuntarily, a small voice in the back of the geniuses’ head piped up, that maybe it _was_ normal for John, that he was just being nice, because Sherlock had been having hard time, that all of this didn’t _mean_ anything. The discomfort caused by this thought must have shown in his face, for John’s easy smile turned into a small frown.

“Don’t give me that look, you always use up all the warm water” Relived that John didn’t actually get it (although he came pretty damn close), Sherlock forced a tight smile on his lips.

“Go ahead” His voice wasn’t even shaking (This shouldn’t feel so much like an achievement).

John, probably already halfway under the soothing sprinkles of water in his mind (a thought Sherlock definitely _shouldn’t_ entertain in front of said army doctor) huffed a satisfied “Cheers”.

 

Although he seemed eager to go to the bathroom seconds ago, John lingered a little bit longer- enjoying the domesticity and quiet after the adrenalin rush; enjoying touching his best friend’s shoulders in soothing circles, feeling the bones and warmth underneath the silky shirt; enjoying this new and intimate dynamics they found themselves in.

 

He didn’t think for a moment, he just felt; he felt and allowed himself to be happy, and to hope, and to be daring. He’d blame it on the adrenalin, if necessary. But actually, he just wanted to, and he was gone on the post-case bliss; way too gone to deny himself such an innocent wish.

 

His mind felt pleasantly empty, when he pulled the detective gently down to his eye level and gave him a sweet peck on the lips. It was a small gesture, which spoke volumes.

 

Some minutes later in the shower, John wouldn’t be able to recall what the hell had gotten into him to throw all his cautions to the wind and just do it. He’d been fantasising about it for weeks, yet he never managed to bring up the courage to act upon those fantasies. He was always worrying. About fucking this up. About the prospect of an unrequired love. Awkward gestures of pity. Uneasiness. Sherlock leaving.

 

Maybe had been a coward, excusing himself to the shower not even ten seconds after his lips left Sherlock’s surprisingly soft ones. It wasn’t really a kiss- a romantic and significant display of deep affection and a promise for more; it was more like a tentative question, a hopeful suggestion, nothing more.

Yet… what if..? He had caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s reaction in the corner of his eyes, just as he left- apart from standing stock still like the literal deer caught in the headlights, his flatmate didn’t seem opposed to the idea.

 

Maybe John was just making believe here, but… they had been sharing a bed for weeks. And Sherlock had been searching his touch not so subtly as he might have thought he did. And he hadn’t stopped blushing since the taxi ride.

It was a sight he could get used to- a flustered Sherlock held a certain charm to himself that the doctor felt himself been drawn to. Just another side of Sherlock he slowly unwrapped, to learn a little bit more about the fascinating man behind the billowing code and snarky intellect. This Sherlock was almost… cute? He held an innocence, a genuine wonder that John really couldn’t explain. All he knew was that he wanted to see more of him.

 

_We'll take it out of here_  
I think I'm ready to leap  
I'm ready to live

 

Perhaps he still felt daring when he entered Sherlock’s/their bedroom 15 minutes later. He had expected to just grab his dressing gown (he forgot to take it with his pajamas to the bathroom) and persuade Sherlock to join him for an early night (to maybe… continue what he had started. Or never mention it again).

 

What he didn’t expect was Sherlock already being _in_ bed, feigning indifference, while he was clearly buzzing with nervous energy. John allowed himself a small smile, when he dropped the dressing gown again to crawl under the covers instead. Sherlock made a nearly inaudible sound when the mattress dipped with the newly added weight when John laid down on his side of the bed, facing the detective. Even in the darkness, John could make out that the detective’s cheeks and neck held a rosy color. He was worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Thinking. Deducing. _Waiting_.

 

Careful not to startle the tense man, the doctor placed a warm hand on his friend’s back, gently tracing his t-shirt clad spine. The movement drew a low, but muffled purr from Sherlock. He was possibly glowing, John could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the thin cotton.

 

He planned on telling Sherlock that there was still some hot water left. That he would wait here, while the detective got ready himself. That Sherlock did good today, that he was proud. That he didn’t mean to startle him with the peck.

 

In the end, he said neither of those things. In the end, he suddenly understood.

 

This wasn’t about doubting the attraction that formed between them, this was about trust. John didn’t know anything about Sherlock’s past experience, but placed an intelligent guess that there was next to nothing. Had the detective ever been kissed? Touched intimately? Let himself go enough to just… feel?

 

He continued to map the expanse of his friend’s back, while said friend tried to muffle his reactions. It was endearing- never did he think Sherlock this responsive to physical touch. But here he was- drawing sighs, and shuddering breaths, and tiny mewls from him, with nothing more than a light touch.

 

Would Sherlock allow him, to carefully take him apart, bit by bit, to put him back together again in the mot sensual kind of ways? Maybe the younger man wasn’t nervous because he didn’t feel comfortable, but because he felt too comfortable, too enthusiastic, didn’t know how to take out this new experience within him? Maybe he needed John to… lead the way?

A gentle noise that sounded distinctive like a breathy moan pulled John out of his inner monologue. Something warm pulled in his lower abdomen, when he took in the state Sherlock was in. He had inched closer, his back was arched deliciously, and his dark curls tousled. He already looked sinfully debauched, although John had barely touched him.

 

It was then when the army doctor realized once again just how much in love he was with Sherlock. He was absolutely _gone_ on the genius. It must have shown on his face, for Sherlock’s gaze scanned him, nervously, a little …shy, before his eyes fell on John’s lips and stayed glued there.

 

‘Not exactly subtle there’ John thought to himself, smiling slightly about this crazy situation they were in. Everything about them was sort of a beautiful mess; nothing had been easy, nothing had been planned; they were broken, broken for different reasons- but this thing between them was _beautiful_.

Yet…so vulnerable. John had to remind himself of the significance of this moments between them- they were about to change _everything_. It made John feel excited.

Well…. excited and scared.

 

John hadn’t been moving for approximately 30 seconds and Sherlock was losing his mind. His heart was beating in his throat, and the patch of skin peeking out from his ridden up pajama top, where John’s palm rested, was burning. Everything was tingly. He never felt like this. He didn’t know how to work with this… sensations. All he knew, that he very embarrassingly longed for more. Everything John was willing to give him, he’d happily take at this point. If only his blogger would _move_ again.

 

Sherlock’s hand brushing lightly against his hip shook John out of his thoughts. Sherlock’s eyes were shining attentive and hopeful in the darkness; and really, this was all the encouragement the man needed.

Gently, but confidently, he was leaning in, closing the distance between their lips again. Sherlock made a small strangled noise of approval, which was drowned out, when the doctor started kissing him in earnest.

It was sort of messy, really, and Sherlock was clumsy at best, but the determination was there- and really, John couldn’t think of a single more arousing thought than a Sherlock who was actually _eager_ to be intimate with him. John managed to shed his initial tentativeness, now trying in earnest to show off his skills- he was a bloody fantastic kisser, as he’d been told- to make the detective’s knees go weak. Judging by the way the younger man’s back was trembling lightly and his breathing elaborated, he was doing a pretty decent job.

 

The kiss was growing from sweetly to hotly in no time; before he knew how it happened, John found his tongue in his Sherlock’s mouth, while the younger man fisted his t-shirt like his life depended on it. He was shaking in earnest now, making little low moans as best as he was able when being snogged so thoroughly.

 

He lost himself a little bit in the feeling, John would admit later, but after all; you don’t get to kiss the man you’ve been in love with for years all that often. So, it came as a small surprise when Sherlock pulled away slightly, to catch a much needed breath.

He even looked more debauched than before, which made John feel indiscribable smug. There weren’t much people who could claim that they could make the great Sherlock Holmes come undone like that.

“ _John_ ”

God, that baritone voice – now nearly three octaves lower with arousal- send a spark of warmth right to John’s cock. He concentrated on not moaning just from the sound of it, tried to get some composure here, some sort of control.

“Alright?” he asked, his own voice husky and wrecked.

 

“I-I’m…” the younger man swallowed, clearly struggling with whatever information he was about to share. John massaged circles around the small of Sherlock’s back and his hips, in what was he hoped was a soothing gesture. He couldn’t help noticing how smooth and warm Sherlock’s skin was right there, or how his fingertips left a wage of goosebumps.

“I’m aroused.”

 

John almost chuckled. Really, for someone who dreadfully hated anyone stating the obvious, the statement was so sweetly un-Sherlock-like that John felt the urge to kiss him, just for the sweetness of it.

Figuring laughter would probably wake the wrong reaction, he instead shifted a little bit, that his own erection was lightly poking a milky white tight. How had he not realized before that Sherlock wore nothing more than a tight pair of black cotton boxers, which left his strong thighs exposed in a casual, yet sensual way? How did he miss the way those boxers were now stretching telltale over a sizeable bulge in his crotch?

 

“Me too” he murmured, lowly, right into the detective’s ear. Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath.

 

“I’ve.. ah! (John nuzzled right underneath his ear) I’ve never done this before”

 

“s alright” John mumbled, now lightly kissing along the elegant column of Sherlock’s neck. The detective gave a fully body shudder at every contact against the sensitive skin, which made John grin against the heated skin; pleased that he had found one of his partner’s sweet spots.

 

“We’ll take it easy, yeah? I’ve got you” he added as an afterthought, realizing that he had been pretty demanding, and possibly overwhelming. He wanted Sherlock to feel safe with him. To enjoy himself. Not cling to sensation after sensation, helplessly overwhelmed with the intensity of it all.

 

“I trust you” The detective stated breathily, before his voice dissolved again into the smallest, most wonderful, utterly erotic noises. John stopped his ministrations for a second, surprised by the genuine statement of affection. His heart was suddenly jumping in his throat, when he reached to bring this remarkable man next to him closer, to kiss him like he _deserved_ to be kissed, to touch him like he _deserved_ to be worshipped.

 

“God, Sherlock” he moaned in between passionate kisses. ‘ _I love you_ ’. He didn’t say. It was too soon. It was too big. It would be too much. Instead, he doubled his efforts, hands roaming freely all over Sherlock’s back, and hips, and tights; kissing him breathlessly, massaging the detective’s tongue with his own- he was drunk on this moment, highly intoxicated with endorphins, his head was swimming with the force of his own arousal. He was far gone- he was really not as much in control as he’d like.

But it was _Sherlock_ , shivering under his fingertips, _Sherlock_ kissing him back, _Sherlock_ who was excited and eager and aching because of him. The thought alone was almost enough to bring the doctor dangerously close to shooting off like a rocket. Sherlock wasn’t too far off either, judging by the quiver in his thighs.

Still, it was sort of surprising. John’s right hand was wandering from thumbing a perk nipple softly, to Sherlock’s hip, daringly lower- while he kissed the younger man’s neck with vigor he hadn’t felt in a long time; while he scratched his friend’s sensitive scalp with skilled movements- lower still, until…

 

Sherlock had been teetering on the edge of a frankly spectacular orgasm for the last ten minutes. It had never felt like this when he had done this by himself- it was an intense tingling, lingering in his spine, and limps, and chest, combined with sparks of warmth every now and then, pulling right at his abdomen. He felt like he should probably be embarrassed about the needy noises he was making, yet it was a strain enough to keep himself from coming in his pants.

 

 Although he wasn’t really familiar with the protocol here, he was pretty sure that ‘clothed orgasm from kissing’ was ranking pretty low on the ‘attractive’ scale. He tried to hold on, he really did. He didn’t think John would be straightforward enough to gently trail his hand lower and lower over his hip and- It took him completely by surprise.

 

The moment John’s warm palm pressed gently against his clothed erection, something inside of him exploded. Unable to stop or control it, he let out a long moan, all muscles in his body going rigid, and a violent orgasm washed over him.

 

John could only stare, mouth going slack at the sight before him. Sherlock was coming.

Because of him.

 

It was the most fucking beautiful thing he had ever witnessed. The cock underneath his hand jumped violently, soaking the fabric of Sherlock’s underwear with long, hot robes of come. John shuddered, when he felt some of the warm wetness seep through the boxer shorts, lightly dampening his palm. He rotated his hand gently, prolonging the pleasure, until was his friend hissing from oversensitivity, lying boneless against the pillows.

 

There was no sound for some minutes, except for their uneven breathes- Sherlock’s slowing down, while John found himself breathing more and more heavier by the second.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock”

“I’m sorry” They spoke at the same time. Surprised by the statement of the other, they looked at each other. “That was probably…. Not what you had in mind. I’m… I’m terribly inexperienced and-“

 

Instead of saying anything, John pulled his insecure best friend into a tight hug. It was slightly awkward, with John’s come damp hand trailing over Sherlock’s back, the heavy smell of ejaculate hanging between them, and John’s straining erection poking Sherlock in the stomach. Whatever end Sherlock had for this sentence died in his throat, when he allowed himself to let himself fall in the security of his blogger’s embrace.

 

“Don’t be sorry” the doctor mumbled against his friend’s neck, softly kissing the blush-covered milky skin to proof his point.

“That was so damn sexy. Your face, God Sherlock…. You’re gorgeous”

 

Obviously overwhelmed with this amount of affection directed at him, Sherlock buried his face against the soft cotton fabric of John’s t-shirt. The doctor was achingly hard now, but he’d be dammed if he broke the intensity of this moment (he would sneak out later, when Sherlock was fast asleep, to have an intense wank over the fucking erotic display he was blessed to witness that night). There was plenty of time for exploration of this new, exciting aspect of their relationship. He was content to just hold Sherlock, for now. Everything about them was fragile, but intoxicating, so fucking beautiful.

 

“John?” Sherlock sounded completely worn-out, barely clinging to consciousness. The first orgasm with a partner was always intense, John still remembered, so he wasn’t really mad that Sherlock made no move to return the favor. There was more than enough time for that.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I’m sleepy” John had to smile; the simple choice of words a dead give-away that Sherlock was almost asleep already.

 

“Just close your eyes” Sherlock shuffled a bit, that he was lying on his side, mindlessly slipped out of the soiled underwear and into his silky pajama bottoms (John looked the other way to give him some privacy. They weren’t quite at that point yet. Although it fueled some very _interesting_ fantasies) curled in a small ball, with John’s arm securely around his waist, and a hand gently patting his hair.

 

“I’ll be there when you wake up”

 

_I'm ready to go_  
(Get me out of my mind  
Get me out of my mind)  
I am ready to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Ready to Go (Vices & Virtues)
> 
> Starting the New Year off strong with another chapter! Hope you spent the first day of the New Year as content as I did. 
> 
> Leave me a comment, some kudos, or a bookmark (or all, if you feel crazy) to let me know if you liked it.


	5. Insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miscommunication leads to hurt feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They'll work it out in the next chapter, I promise!

The days following after that night rushed by in a blurr. Lestrade had called with another case early in the morning after the first time they had been intimate, a case which took up almost all of their time and attention. Yet, Sherlock seemed to be more considerate, seemed to take his time every once in a while- to stop and look at John, to give him a smile. Every time it happened, John’s heart made a leap towards his throat.

 

He’d cough and cover his mouth, so nobody would see his dopey smile. It would give them away, instantly. And John really wasn’t too keen on Scotland Yard gossiping about his relationship status, when he himself wasn’t sure about it. All he knew was that he didn’t feel confident enough to drag it out into the open just yet. The something between them, whatever it was, felt much too fragile, much too private to share it with the world, at least for now. It needed time to grow, and privacy. A safe space.

 

Like their flat, where they would share occasional kisses and hugs- touches that came so surprising and sweet, they left John feeling breathless and giddy at the same time. He was in love.

 

Sherlock was…. intrigued?

 

He didn’t know and couldn’t find the nerve to ask. It was typical for the detective to stay silent about emotional attachments, and although it didn’t bother John most of the time, it left him feeling antsy and on edge now. At some hours during the days, he would be sure about Sherlock’s mutual interest, at others he was lead to believe that this was nothing more than an interesting experiment for his mad genius. Something he would grow _bored_ of, eventually. The thought hurt John enough to stop considering telling him.

 

The night they shared wasn’t repeated; they didn’t even share a bed again the next three days, because of the case. It was just how Sherlock was, consumed by his own intellect, by the excitement, the thrill of it all. John on the other hand, was consumed by Sherlock. At times like those, where he laid in their bed and stared at the empty space beside him, he wondered if he was too fast to get invested, too fast entering some sort of game. After all, it could be a game for Sherlock, John wouldn’t know.

 

In the mornings he would chide himself for thinking this coldly about his Sherlock, especially when he was greeted with a small peck on the lips, or a quick side-hug. But still. John always had been doubtful in nature; and the past events only enforced him in his believe that it wasn’t wise to wear your heart on your sleeve. It could easily be broken like this. Sherlock broke his heart, once. The stiches he applied afterwards were still too fresh, the wound was still healing. John just didn’t want to take any risks, that’s all.

 

They wrapped up the case early on a Thursday evening. Sherlock had been brilliant, and bustling, and generally high on his own brilliancy. If there would ever be anything Sherlock Holmes would never grow tired of, it would be hearing himself talk.

 

John would listen, shaking his head fondly at the sheer dramatics of it all. Sherlock continued talking, even though Greg had joined John, asking him politely if he was free after this. John remembered that he promised himself to invent Greg out for a pint to thank him for his help when Sherlock had his breakdown, so he agreed happily.

 

It would do him some good to get out of his head for a while, the constant pondering and emotional turmoil back and forth- always between confessing his undying love for the genius or bolting the flat- was exhausting him. He felt like he missed something, something _crucial_ , but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

 

Sherlock still talked when they got out of the cap, still talked while John freshened himself up, changed, and put his jacket on again. Just as he was about to leave the flat, Sherlock paused.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Catching some pints at the pub with Greg”

 

Sherlock’s face fell, just a little. He tried to cover it up quickly, with his usual mask of indifference, but John did catch a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes.

 

“I thought we would spend the evening together”

 

John’s heart gave a nervous flutter at the proposition, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know, that he would most likely buzz on about the case and his own brilliancy in it, make some notes about the interesting soil he found under the victim’s fingernails (yes, John actually listened to Sherlock’s never-ending litany.) and then crash, to sleep at least ten hours.

 

While he was endeared by Sherlock and his fascination with things; he was buzzing to clear his head, to get some distance, just to look at them in a different perspective. All his thoughts circled around their relationship, around their emotions, around the chaos of it all- coming to no point whatsoever.

He was working himself up about the different possibilities, unable to form a rational thought. He really wanted to get away, in order to return with a clearer vision about the situation they were in.

 

He wasn’t running away- you only run away from things you’re uncomfortable with. And he wasn’t. He loved it, _this_ , between them, but he was constantly running _towards_ all the different emotions, in such exertion that he just wanted to catch a breath. A breath he needed to keep running.

 

“I won’t be long, promise. Just get yourself nice and comfortable, I will be back before you know it”

 

This time, Sherlock didn’t even bother with controlling his expression. His lips formed into a pout. “I want to spend time with you”

 

“And I want to catch up with Greg” John smiled softly, signaling Sherlock that he didn’t mean harm in his objection. But also that he wouldn’t budge. Although he loved seeing Sherlock this clingy, this excited to be with him; he’d need to establish boundaries, or else Sherlock would think he’d get what he wanted if he just pulled the emotional card on John. Not that he was already trying and succeeding this most of the time, but the doctor liked to think he would get some resemblance of control over the situation.

 

“I’ll be back soon” he kissed his sulking detective on the crown of his head. “Oh, and in case you go to bed before I’m back, don’t turn off the alarm, yeah? I have the early shift tomorrow”

Sherlock only ‘hmpf’ed sullenly in response.

 

 

Roughly two hours later, John was pleasantly tipsy and laughed heartily at some story Greg told him about his ridiculous ex-wife. Just as he was about to order another round, his phone buzzed for the 20th time in the past hour (he had _counted_ ). Groaning slightly, he checked the messenger ID. Sherlock. Of course. Greg chuckled into his almost empty glass.

 

“He’s quite the handful, eh?”

 

“You don’t know half of it” John grinned, before making the decision to turn his phone off. Sherlock could deal a couple of minutes on his own.

 

“But you two coming along, alright? After the”- he waved around his hands ominously- “everything?”

 

John swallowed, suddenly feeling a little bit hot under the collar. It wasn’t like he kept a secret, because effectively they were not in a relationship yet, but still…he was nervous. Greg was one of his best friends, but he wasn’t ready to share the new side their friendship started to develop. He would, he promised himself, once they’d worked it out. For now though, he settled for a smile which he hoped came off in a natural way.

 

“Everything’s fine, mate. We’re doing alright”

 

“Sherlock’s been better, I noticed” Greg mused thoughtfully, as thoughtful as you can be when you’re nursing your third pint. “He scared me, when he was breaking down like that. Thought he’d need a long way to come back on track. But he’s as chipper and arrogant as ever” He laughed, then grinned toothily. “Whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop. It’s working”

 

John blushed hotly (he was sure, wouldn’t Greg be slightly tipsy, he’d notice straight away) and thought to himself that he’d be dammed if Greg knew that the ‘helping’ included sharing a bed and kisses. To overplay his embarrassment, he took a large gulp out of his new pint.

 

And almost choked on it, when he saw Sherlock walking through the door.

 

“Speak of the devil and he is bound to appear!” Greg almost shouted, laughing. Sherlock came straight towards them, gaze never leaving John. To say the doctor was surprised was an understatement; but after all he should have known better than to switch off his phone. Sherlock Holmes never did anything half-assed, and if he set his mind on something, he’d do everything humanly possible to get it. John felt the urge to giggle, with the ridiculousness of it all.

 

When the detective arrived at the table, he ignored Greg’s happy “Sherlock, mate!”, and grasped John’s hand. He proceeded to pull the doctor in a standing position, already half-way dragging him towards the exit.

 

“Woah, easy there!” the doctor yelped, almost losing his footing while he tried to keep his balance. “Sherlock-hey!- Sherlock, hold on!”

 

The younger man stopped pulling due to John’s protests but didn’t let go of his sleeve. He gave John _that_ look, and his friend stared back, equally stubborn. His eyes flickered to Greg, who no doubt found the situation beyond _hilarious_. John sighed. They needed to talk about it.

Alone.

Now.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” he asked, while he pushed Sherlock towards the small hallway leading to the toilets.

 

 

Once they were in semi-privacy, multiple things happened at once. John opened his mouth to let out a hearty swear about Sherlock’s dramatics, while the detective pulled him close, _almost_ pressing their lips together.

 

John saw it before it was coming and stopped it at the very last second. With perhaps a bit more force than necessary, he held the detective at an arm’s length.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, likewise a bit more rude than necessary.

 

Sherlock’s face fell. “I-“

 

“What if someone saw?” John continued, checking if anyone- or God forbit, Greg- had peeked their way. It didn’t seem like it.

 

When he looked back at his friend’s face, said friend had put all his defenses up. John instantly felt bad for getting hot-tempered.

 

“Look” he tried, now softer, gently petting Sherlock’s arm as a peace offering. “I just don’t want to drag this”- he gestured between them- “out in the open yet. I don’t want anyone to know we’re… you know”

 

To be honest, he just didn’t give it a title, because he _himself_ wasn’t sure how to title it. Sherlock’s face had merged back into his usual mask of indifference, and now John felt really bad he had reacted like that. He did not want Sherlock to retreat back in on himself, not after all the progress they had made, _but_ didn’t he have the right to make certain requests towards their relationship as well?

 

“You could have had your sexuality crisis _before_ you decided to kiss me” the detective snapped at him.

 

John sighed, still smoothing over his friend’s arm. “I’m not having a crisis, Sherlock. I’m pretty damn sure about this” (‘But I’m still not sure about you’ he added in his mind) “But... listen, let’s talk at home. I’m just finishing my last pint. You can wait here or go ahead”

 

Sherlock turned, without another word and glance and left John standing there, feeling very much like an idiot. He groaned. Why nothing could ever easy with this madman? He left the little hallway with a heavy feeling in his guts, when he ran into a familiar face.

 

“Oh, lovely evenin’, John!” Holly. A charmingly sweet nurse from the surgery. Her smile was so bright, that John even forgot his relationship trouble for a second.

 

 

The second was long enough that he lost sight of Sherlock, who seated himself against the bar to wait (for he _so_ wasn’t in the mood for Graham’s drunken chatter) and was now staring daggers in John’s direction.

 

While John was _flirting_ with this woman -a nurse, Irish, 30, a real redhead, breathtakingly beautiful- , while she cheerfully gave him a carefully folded piece of paper, while he hugged her before she vanished through the exit doors.

 

Sherlock’s heart gave a cold squeeze when he realized that maybe this was the reason John didn’t want to stay in with him, tried to hide their relationship. He shuddered involuntarily, and his vision blurred for a moment. He should be used to be deceived like this by now.

 

The only two attempts of relationships he had ever had ended exactly like this. After the second one, he had stopped trying. After all, he had never been the number one choice for anyone but… but although he… he always knew that it would end like that, he didn’t anticipate that it would end so soon.

 

And that it would _hurt_ like it did. Maybe he thought John was something special. Maybe he had been wrong.

 

He followed John with his eyes, when he sat down next to Graham again, a sickenly happy smile plastered on his stupid face. Sherlock felt like punching something. Jealously was a curious disease, but two could play this game, Sherlock thought, when he turned to the barkeeper and ordered the strongest shot with shaking fingers.

 

He felt a little bit like throwing up his own heart.

 

 

John finished the pint in a hurry, guessing Sherlock had already left, and was anxious to get to talk to him.

 

“Sorry mate, I better get after Sherlock-“ he started, standing up.

 

“You sure?” Greg interjected. “He looks like he’s quite enjoying himself” He pointed at the bar, where a very confused John Watson was faced with a very drunk Sherlock Holmes (for a lightweight like the detective just couldn’t hold his liquor), who was chatting charmingly with the annoyingly handsome barkeeper.

 

John’s stomach gave a painful churn that had nothing to do with the beer he consumed. He had known the detective long enough to know when he attempted to flirt. And this, was very much flirting.

 

Anger flared up inside him- sure, Sherlock had the right to be annoyed at him for being a little ruff with him, but downright throwing himself into the arms of another man? Seriously? What the _hell_ was he trying to proof?

 

“See you, Greg” He left a slightly confused DI behind and stomped towards the bar, trying to look casually and failing.

 

“Sherlock” he couldn’t quite contain the biting tone. “Time to go home”

 

The tipsy detective turned at the sound of his name, and the glance he threw in John’s direction was enough for the doctor to sober up completely. There was a fight in those eyes. But also vulnerability, carefully masked by Sherlock’s usual cocky behavior.

 

“Already?” he asked, overly-sweet tone slightly slurred. “I w’s having _such_ an interesting conversation with Christoph here-“

 

“You’re pretty full, buddy” the barkeeper said, while giving John a pointed look. The doctor knew instantly that the barkeeper hadn’t really been flirting with Sherlock, but that only flared his anger more. Sherlock was downright forcing it to piss him off. And it worked. Spectacularly well.

 

“You should go with your-“

 

“ _friend_ ” Sherlock interrupted him, while giving John a downright evil grin. “Just a friend”

 

Wow.

 

That hurt.

 

Not just a little bit. That hurt a lot more than John thought it would. The wort part was, that Sherlock was beating him at his own game. John realized with a start that they would need to have a conversation about this as soon as Sherlock was sober again, because otherwise the uncertainty would spiral into something destructive.

 

Stamping his negative emotions down as far as he could- because really, Sherlock acted just like a child who wanted to get his attention and he’d be dammed if he’d show him how much his little games were getting to him- and gently, but firmly, pulled his friend in a standing position.

 

“C’mon.”

 

Sherlock swayed dangerously, a mixture of alcohol and the exhaustion from the past case crashing down on him like a wave. He could barely hold himself upright. John dragged him to the exit, carefully refraining from snapping at his detective rudely. He didn’t get why Sherlock had acted this way, and it had done a spectacularly good job at hurting him.

 

But Sherlock was… complicated like that. It would do nothing good to punish him for his shite behavior. John was pretty sure, Sherlock would punish himself enough with a bad consciousness when he woke up from his intoxicated state. He took pride in the fact that he was the only person who could evoke a bad consciousness in Sherlock Holmes. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure if that really should be something you’re taking pride in.

 

When he had dragged the barely conscious detective to bed and gotten ready himself, he spend nearly half an hour just watching his sleeping face, pondering about what the hell had just happened.

 

Something needed to change, they needed to finally be honest with each other, otherwise the fragile bond between them was just bound to break sooner or later. John sighed, feeling drained.

 

He was the experienced one here, yet he somehow managed to handle all of this with the worst approaches possible. And now they came to a place where they had hurt each other on this new personal level, and John knew he had to fix it quickly, otherwise their relationship would be over before it even began.

 

Sighing, he finally laid down, since he had to get up early in the morning. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave Sherlock a small kiss against the sleep-warm lips.

 

“We’ll figure it out” he whispered. If he was reassuring himself or the sleeping detective, he wasn’t so sure.

 

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kinda short, sorry about that! I'll try to not keep you waiting this long for the next chapter.
> 
> Also, I've been thinking. I'm not really feeling the PATD lyrics for this fic anymore, so I'll be leaving them out from now on.
> 
> As always, kudos, comments and bookmarks make my day <3 Thank you guys so much for reading and giving me feedback, I'm so glad you like the story <3


	6. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about time they open up about their feelings.

The first time Sherlock woke up, he almost wished he hadn’t. Everything was bleary, his thoughts were shattered about; and above all, there was the drum of a massive headache resonating in his skull. He turned, groaning with the effort of _moving_ , and reached blindly for his bedside-table to find- fucking _bless_ John Watson- a glass of water and painkillers. He swallowed them hurriedly, wincing at the velvety texture of his own mouth, and fell back into the deep, dreamless slumber of the intoxicated.

 

The next time he woke up, his brain decided to join him. He opened his eyes slowly and pressed them shut again when warm mid-day sun hit his still-blurry vision. Shielding his eyes from the invading nuisance that was daylight, he outstretched an arm to examine the other side of the bed. After a mild panic of finding it empty, his memory slowly reminded him that John had the early shift today, which means he would be home by noon… or more precisely in twenty minutes. If John would come home, that is. The detective stopped, blinked in surprise, and re-visited the thought. Where had _that_ come from?

Oh.

 _Oh_ , wait a minute.

He had read about the effects of alcoholic beverages on the memory. Maybe he should have ingested more, so he wouldn’t have to remember what an utter _fool_ he had made of himself. Or even better, he shouldn’t have been drinking at all. He shouldn’t have been following John at all. He should have stayed and make notes and then wait for John like a decent human being. What had he even been thinking to follow the doctor and Gavin in that ghastly establishment? Nothing. Nothing at all. “This is it” he mused bitterly to himself. “I’m loosing my mind”.

All because of this _dreadful_ sentiment.

 

Over the past weeks he had _felt_ more than he had in years and he was utterly overwhelmed by it. Just when he thought he would have a grip of control over the situation, another aspect he hadn’t considered before surfaced and then he couldn’t _stop_ considering it and- oh God- he had acted like a fucking teenager yesterday. That was your masterplan, sentiment? Getting drunk and making John jealous? Really?! Well, mission failed. That must have been the opposite of attractive.

 

Yet, he couldn’t stop it, he realized as he turned to his side and viewed the crumbled pillow where John had been lying hours prior with a sense of longing he couldn’t quite comprehend. What he wanted was… childish and…below his intellect but… still. He wanted it.

 

Which was a stupid thing to want, an unreachable thing. People like him- eccentric freaks with questionable morals- didn’t go well together with people like John- good people. The best people. The best damn person Sherlock Holmes had ever met. Why would John want to be with _him_?

 

He doesn’t, if the experiences of the past evening were anything to go by. While his heart constricted painfully at the memory of John not only dodging his kiss, but also flirting with this stupidly gorgeous woman, Sherlock couldn’t help to remember the end of his first ever relationship. She was a young professor- charming intellect, casual beauty- and she admired him. Until she got to know him.                                                                                                                                         “It’s difficult to like you, once one gets to know who you are” she had said. After he had seen her. With someone else. He didn’t feel possessive of her, for he didn’t grasp the desire to be associated with another human being in that way. The hurt he had felt puzzled him.

 

He tried again. A fellow student this time- Victor Trevor. Handsome, likeable, quick-witted Victor Trevor. It must have been somewhat closer to love, then. And it ended, of course it did.                    “Look, Sherlock. You’re so… much. And yet you’re… just not enough. I’m sorry”

He had stopped trying after Victor had left.

 

Because really, one must admit defeat when it’s inevitable. He wasn’t built for relationships. He had been _fine_ with that fact for all his life. Then John happened. Then John happened and _changed_ everything. Suddenly feeling re-surfaced he didn’t know he was still capable of, suddenly a desire arose within him that he couldn’t know how to control. He just wanted- that smile, and that kiss, and the gruff voice just after waking up, and the crinkling of his nose while figuring out a blog-post, and the chase, the excitement, the approval- John. He just wanted John.

 

And John didn’t. Or did he? Sherlock shook his head, confused. His thoughts kept getting in disorder, due to the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the constant nagging in the back of his mind, and a nauseating sickness that had gripped his stomach. What if John wanted to _leave_ now? The thought sent him in such an irrational frenzy, that he buried his face against the pillow and had to make some breathing exercises before he calmed down. Just transport? Sociopath? Hell, he couldn’t even fool himself with this crap these days.

 

The woman had been beautiful. John liked beautiful women. John liked women, in general. Yet, he had kissed _him_ and they did…. Things. And then he didn’t want to kiss him anymore and why, God why was this sentiment business so chaotic? He couldn’t _think_ properly, because John entered his mind no matter how rational he tried to tackle this situation. And John was late- it was already one in the afternoon- and what John just didn’t come back this time, what if John just left- God, he couldn’t possibly go on if that was the case and- John was never late and- no, it couldn’t end, not this time, he had tried to be good, he really did, but of course he wasn’t enough for he was always “just not enough”- but John was good, the best damn thing- and _he had really tried this time_ , so the defeat was almost crushing, he couldn’t breathe, what if-

 

“I’m home!”

Sherlock took a much-needed breath.

John was home.

All was fine.

 _Wait_. Nothing was fine.

Or was it?

 

“Up already?” John entered the picture, all friendly doctor charm and comfortable jumpers, and Sherlock just couldn’t _get_ it.

“Figured you’d be out longer, you really can’t hold your liquor”

Why the hell was John _smiling_ at him? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he… gone?

 

“I’m sorry it took me longer than usual, I fetched a little something for you on my way back” he unceremoniously dropped a small wrapped box into the detective’s lap, who was stunned into silence. He just gawked at his friend, like he had suddenly grown an extra head.

“Go on then, it has chocolate filling. Not that I approve of your unhealthy eating habits or anything, but I figured after yesterday…. It’s a peace offering”

 

Sherlock stared down at the small box in his lap, which contained a nicely decorated cupcake. It was richly covered with raspberry frosting and smelled sinfully good.

“Listen, I was acting shitty yesterday and I just want to apologize. I treated you poorly and- Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”

 

The detective was currently still frantically trying to wrap up the turmoil of emotions and thoughts that whirled through his mind.

“Sherlock? Hey…” the chaos came to an abrupt halt when warm hands turned his head and he met ocean blue eyes. “Back with me, yeah?”

 

“I’m such an ass and you buy me a _cupcake_?!” Sherlock blurted out, obviously unaware that he had even opened his mouth. “Why?” that was... almost whiney. It just…came out. He didn’t authorize this!

 

“They were out of eclairs” the doctor deadpanned with a straight face.

Sherlock stared at him for a full minute. “Are you _ridiculing_ me?”

“Easy, I was just making a little-“

“Because it’s working”

John Watson, bless his heart, snorted a short laugh. It was the kind of laugh that Sherlock knew so well, the kind of laugh which was so breathtakingly intimate; it only took this little laugh to crash down everything around him.

 

“John” he winced at the vulnerability in his own voice. “I…I don’t understand” he admitted, helplessly.

“This is me apologizing” The doctor offered, sitting down on the bed next to his friend. “I did not treat you right yesterday, and for that I’m very sorry”

“But-“Sherlock started. “But I was the one who…” he trailed off.

John sighed. “Mistakes were made, yeah. That doesn’t make you an ass, though. You’re a good person, when are you ever going to believe me? You just make wrong choices sometimes. You’ll do better, next time. And so will I”

“I’m not a child” the detective scoffed, but felt his cheeks heat up under the praise he so very dearly graved. He sighed and pushed his fists against his eyelids, suddenly feeling a nervous energy bubble inside of his stomach.

 

“Still I don’t- I don’t understand. Everything is so confusing” he groaned low, annoyed with his own inadequateness of dealing with emotions. “Every time I think that I figured it out, a variable changes, throws everything into chaos again”

John opened his mouth, but Sherlock paid him no mind, instead working himself up again.

“I know that my nature is neither sociable, nor nice, nor anything anyone would remotely desire in a partner” John had to smile to himself at that, for the detective probably didn’t even realized that he was finally opening up about his emotions. It was as if a heavy burden was lifted off his heart.            “But I’m trying so hard”

 

“I know, Sherlock. I just didn’t see. I’m sorry”

That morning, when John hopped in the shower with his mind still heavy from the prospects of the situation they found themselves in, he absent-mindedly wondered when the last time had been when he had to clean out the bathtub with bleach, due to one of Sherlock’s little ‘experiments’. Glad to find something else to occupy his mind, he pondered upon the subject nearly two minutes. Then it dawned on him. He couldn’t even remember. Nor could he remember the last time he almost gagged out his own lungs when finding rotten horse eyes next to the carrots. Or holes in the walls… or violent violin music at 3am… It not just dawned on him then. It was a downright epiphany.

All this time that he had been waiting for Sherlock to _do_ something, to show him how he felt; all this time the missing link had been right there, underneath his nose, and he had just been too blind to acknowledge it. All these little everyday things, things Sherlock did not bother with before, were meant to show that he _cared_ for John.

 

“But it’s still not enough”

“Sherlock-Why would you say that?”

The detective finally took his own hands away from his eyes and regarded his doctor with an unreadable gaze. Calculating. Deducing. Hoping, perhaps.

“That women yesterday” his hands were trembling lightly. “The nurse, with the teeth gap and the strong Irish accent, she had given you a paper- her number, no doubt. And I assumed, falsely as I now realize, that the whole sharing a bed, and kissing and….sexual thing would somehow create an exclusive bond between us, so the prospect of you flirting with her was… it did….” He groaned again, for he was unable to find words that did not make him sound like the inexperienced idiot that he _was_.

 

“You’re an idiot” Precisely. Yet, the words send a cold rush down his back. Sure, they hadn’t talked about this but… somehow, he just assumed that John wanted to be… with him. To be… his… as much as he wanted to be John’s, he realized in this very moment with a growing sense of panic. John touched his shoulder- out of sympathy, no doubt, but he found himself almost unable to move away from the warm center of the doctor’s palm. It was calming, a grounding force while his whole life was going to shreds.

John would pity him now- poor, inexperienced Sherlock gets kissed, has an orgasm, and thinks it’s love- and then he would leave. They all left in the end.

Just this once… he had wished that this rule did not apply.

 

“You’re seriously telling me that you could tell she was Irish and a nurse, probably by the shape of her lips of whatnot, and missed the wedding ring on her finger?” Sherlock looked up, surprised. That didn’t make much sense. John was a reasonable man, he would never engage with a women who was still in a relationship, which meant that- oh. John fished the piece of paper Sherlock recognized from yesterday out of his jacket pocket, which he had mindlessly thrown over the bedpost. Unceremonially, he plunked the card- for a card it was Sherlock now realized upon closer inspection- in the detective’s lap. A wedding invitation. Sherlock blinked at it for several seconds.

 

“I meant to ask you all week but didn’t work up the courage to do so” John spoke softly, timidly, a little shy perhaps. “I’d be very happy if you’d be my plus one”

“But… but the women-“ he stammered, still utterly lost. John wanted him? How was _that_ even possible? “And.. and the dates-“

“No more women, no more dates” The doctor stated firmly. “Just you and me. If that’s alright with you”

 

Sherlock felt as if he had been slapped in the face. The evidence. The evidence had been right there but he…he… misinterpreted it? Again, how was that even _possible_?

 

“You want to go to the wedding? With _me_? Why?”

“Take an intelligent guess, genius”

The world was going insane. And he was going to a wedding. With John. Like, _with_ with. As a partner.

 

“But… what if…. What if I want to kiss you again? People will see” Why was he thinking about this now? They hadn’t even…worked out…. everything and yet all he could think about was…kissing John…now and…always. Something in his brain must have fried.

 

John sighed, but not in his exasperated ‘Sherlock’s being an idiot’ kind of way. It sounded a bit remorseful, perhaps. He eyed Sherlock another few seconds, looking almost sad (which made a knot of anxiety curl in Sherlock’s stomach), before smiling, just a little bit (the knot loosened).   “You can kiss me as much as you like, whenever you feel like it”

“But yesterday-“

“I made a mistake. I hurt you, and that wasn’t an all right thing for me to do. I’m supposed to protect you, after all” He nudged Sherlock’s shoulder in a friendly way, that made the detective’s insides all fluttery.

“It’s just that…Sherlock, I’m confused, too. And terrified” He gave a shaky laugh. “I’m just me, and you’re you and that’s-“

“A nuisance? Annoying? Unbearable?”

“What are you talking about? It’s extraordinary” Another adjective for the list Sherlock never would have dreamed to be called. “ _You_ are extraordinary. I’m just ordinary. I get scared that I won’t be ... able to keep up with you. That you’ll leave me” The ‘again’ hung between them in the air. It didn’t need to be addressed. They both knew it was there.

 

Still, that had to be the stupidest thing Sherlock had ever heard, and he was taking Anderson into account. “That’s nonsense. You already keep up with me” Him, leaving John? It wasn’t even worth a consideration as a possible outcome from this scenario. The thought alone was absurd. “I couldn’t” As terrifying as it was to admit it, it was true. “You make me better. You fix the broken parts” Sherlock frowned at the cupcake- almost an emblem for everything that was _good_ about John Watson- annoyed by his inability to put his emotions into words that weren’t sounding tremendously childish.

John gave him a long, hard look. Something in those eyes made him want to squirm and hide his face in embarrassment. It was a lot to take in, being vulnerable like that. It was new and significant and utterly horrifying. He felt a bit like stripping off his skin, carving the carefully crafted layers aside to let John have a peek inside. To wait anxiously trembling for his judgement. It was like falling without ever hitting the ground.

 

“ _Oh_ , Sherlock, love. There’s nothing to be fixed. You’re not broken”

 

In all of his thirty odd years of existing, nobody had ever doubted that there was something wrong with him. The doctors, his parents, the other kids, his fellow students, the Yarders… everybody knew that Sherlock Holmes was odd. That there was something… unusual, something strange about him. How could John tell him that it was alright to be this way? How could John not _see_? Sherlock managed to work himself in a state of disbelieving shock, so much so that he didn’t even register the term of endearment.

 

“You’re not observing. Clearly, you’re missing the clues. Your conclusion is wrong. If you take all the variables into account, the inevitable outcome-“

John, bless his heart, interrupted the Sherlockian triad, skillfully trapping the detective’s animatedly waving hands in a firm, warm grasp.

“Shut your trap, you git”, he told him, gently. Sherlock, stunned into silence, stared at their clasped hands like it was the first time he had seen them. Somehow, John had managed to find the only thing to bring this gigantic brain network to a screeching halt.

“Gentle breaths, yeah? Everything’s fine” Sherlock had started, as he belatedly and to his annoyance realized, to hyperventilate a little bit.

 

They sat there, just breathing, for a long time.

The silence was smooth and calming between them, creating a save space all around-

 

“You’re making a mistake”

‘Now, that came out of nowhere’, John thought to himself.

 

He gave the detective a look. “Leave that decision up to me”

“You don’t understand how dreadful, how awful I’m going to be as a partner, I-“

“You’ve been my partner for years, we just didn’t call ourselves that. I know you, Sherlock. There’s nothing you could possible do to change my mind”

“No” The detective pleaded, and it almost sounded as if he was in pain. “I will find a way to mess this up- I’ve always messed sentiment up- and the cost is just too high this time”

 

Why didn’t John _get_ it? How could he be smiling at him, that soft crinkly smile that reached his eyes solely reserved for private moments between them, how could he smile like that? Didn’t he realize just how much was at stake? Sherlock knew, he just did, that somehow his inadequateness, his sheer oddity would drive John Watson away, and with him all that had been good in his life.

 

He gave John a look, all sad determination. “I just don’t want you to leave. But if we start this, you will. I’m not… not good enough”

 

“I’d like to kiss you, now, if that’s alright” Was John even _listening_ to him?!

 

“Are you mocking me again?” the detective asked tentatively, with a sour note in his tone.

Really, he was pouring his heart out in the open here, although his vocabulary on the subject was limited and his experiences quite poor. But he tried, thank you very much, and John treated it like it was no big deal whatsoever.

 

Still, he let himself be pulled against John without any resistance, and let himself be kissed; warm, and reassuring, and gentle. A kind of kiss that makes you forget, just for a little while, that your life is about to go to shreds.

“I’m not mocking you” John murmured, his warm breath touching Sherlock’s lips pleasantly.

“I don’t really know how else to express just how sure I am of this, Sherlock. Of how much I want this, want _you_ ”

“But John-“

“No, Sherlock. That’s quite enough“

 

Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him- this stubborn, brave, wonderful man- and saw the determination in his eyes, and the genuine affection radiating towards him. He tried to deduce the default in all of this but came out empty-handed. John, gentle, loving, wonderful John, really wanted to be with him. Sure, Sherlock had hoped that he would but… most of the time entertained it as a mere fantasy. The prospect that everything that happened between them had a _reason_ , that this reason was one of mutual _attraction_ , overwhelmed him.

There was an itch in his brain he didn’t know how to scratch. Something was missing. _He_ was missing something here. But he didn’t understand what it was, didn’t understand what John’s motifs were and his complete lack of control over this situation frustrated him immensely. He was a deductive genius, it was his whole purpose in life to understand clues. To put together variables.

Not understanding was a new, curious experience- one he wasn’t so sure he liked. He felt exposed, completely at John’s mercy; John who seemed to be comfortable and so very sure in this situation.

 

He searched for words to describe his confused emotional state but failed. He missed years of practice for this kind of conversation; and found to his utter horror that he was completely unprepared. Better stick with a train of thought he was familiar with:

 

“Why would you want to be… with me? It doesn’t make sense”

 

At that, the doctor raised his eyebrows in his ‘Sherlock has no clue about the social 101’ fashion (and wasn’t telling that they even _had_ a look for that?). Sherlock, having regained some of his usual attitude, stared back at him challenging. John smirked at the expression in his detective’s face, usually reserved for really complicated puzzles. John sighed, more to himself, and mentally prepared himself for his next step.

 

The easiest thing would be to just tell him. That would also mean, however, to put everything in the open, and that was… terrifying to put it mildly. Because sure, they had been beating around the bush for the past half hour, sort of arriving at the conclusion that they both wanted this relationship but were quite uncertain of actually allowing this desire to have drastic consequences. Technically, given what they had already done with each other, they should have already passed this stage- but somehow they managed to skip the negotiation completely. Because fuck it, nothing about them could ever be easy, now couldn’t it? To admit… just how much his best friend meant to him made it real. And real meant out in the open. Which meant terribly vulnerable. John wasn’t so sure he was ready for that.

 

But Sherlock looked at him like _that_. Genuinely disbelieving that it was possible for another human being to like him, just for being himself. It made a surge of protectiveness well up in the doctor, combined with the urge to punch anybody who had ever hurt this wonderfully odd and oddly wonderful man.

 

He took a deep breath. Soldier up, Watson. Time to be brave. No turning back now, cards on the table.

 

“Because I love you”

 

The world stopped turning for a second.

John stopped breathing for a second.

Sherlock just…. Stopped for a second.

 

John fidgeted anxiously, wishing he could clench his tingly fingers, but he still held Sherlock’s hands, and he’d be dammed if he let go now. He could feel the detective’s frantic heartbeat all the way in his palms (that certainly wasn’t healthy), and the doctor part in him hysterically cackled at the thought of sending his best friend into a state of shock with a love-confession. With growing uneasiness, he watched Sherlock blink at him rapidly; and really, at this point he was halfway through the door, to get his medical equipment and the ugly orange shock blanket. After all these years, he had done it. He broke Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Sherlock” he started in his calm doctor-voice “Do you hear me? Do you know where you are?” Said Sherlock abruptly snapped his head to face John directly, making his own neck crack with the suddenness of the movement. The blinking stopped suddenly, and instead he watched Sherlock’s face go into deduction-mode. Oh well, whatever made him happy, John supposed. Sure, an actual answer (or reaction that wasn’t medically suspicious) would have been nice, but as long as the genius wasn’t bolting on him, John considered it a success. Sort of.

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy rearranging the chaos John’s words had made of his mind-palace. Because Oh. _Oh_. That was new. He had been loved before, he supposed, at least from his parents. But he had never heard those words directed at him, not this sincere, not this _real_. Immediately, his brain provided countless definitions of the term, analyzing everything that it entailed; while something constantly screamed faintly in the background- out of panic, joy, or confusion, Sherlock himself wasn’t even sure (all three, most likely).

This changed _everything_.

This had been _missing_.

 

Although he came to the conclusion, that he was horribly inept as to interpret what the practical implications of the theoretical term ‘love’ actually meant, even someone as socially unequipped as himself understood that it had proven itself to be the best possible fundament for a relationship. He hadn’t been loved in a relationship, before.

In conclusion, there was a variable he hadn’t tested yet. In conclusion, maybe this time it could actually _work out_. Maybe then John wouldn’t find a reason to leave. Because he _loved_ Sherlock.

 

When John’s alarmed voice reached his ears, he snapped out of his mind-palace violently.

 

“I haven’t considered that before” John wanted to scream. Seriously, this guy would be the death of him.

“Given the circumstances, and the presented new- and very promising- variable I’m willing to redeem my previous statement. We should give it a try”

 

Well. It wasn’t exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, but it was touching and sweet, in a very Sherlock-kind of way. Which, really, was more than John had ever hoped for. Emotions weren’t easy for his friend, John knew that. He struggled to understand himself, to read others, to translate them into words. He might never hear it back. But really, that was okay. Everything was going to be okay, as long as they stayed together.

 

John couldn’t remember being this happy in a long time.

Instead of prolonging the conversation, he pulled his insufferable madman to lay down with him and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of him. Sherlock, although a little surprised, welcomed this change of events eagerly.

 

That night, when they lay entwined among the sheets, and Sherlock was fast asleep, John pressed a gentle kiss against his partner’s sleep-warm lips.

 

“Told you we would figure it out” he murmured into the darkness, before he let himself be pulled to sleep; safe and sound and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm. So. Sorry!!!!! It has been ages, but don't worry, I didn't abandon this fic, haha. 
> 
> Technically, we're finished here. But I plan to add a sickenly-sweet epilog; and perhaps a bonus chapter that only contains smutty moments between those two (because really, who dosn't enjoy some smutty goodness from time to time? >:3).
> 
> Thank you guys eversomuch for your patience and for sticking with this fic and for reading, and kudo-ing (?) and commenting and and and! <3


	7. Epilog: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Super short one, but I thought it was a nice end to this story <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about adding a bonus-chapter that is more smutty than my usual style, would you guys like to read something like that?

John would have never guessed that Sherlock could dance like that. He also would have never guessed that Sherlock could laugh like that; that Sherlock could so genuinely enjoy himself like he did at the wedding.

 

Their small “outing” was a complete success. All the nurses and doctors at the party were absolutely smitten with Sherlock, who charmed his way through like it was something he did on a regular basis. John just stood next to him, looking like the cat that got the canary; all proud about his partner (who was termed “one hell of a catch!” by Holly).

 

It was easy.

 

John had only made it complicated before.

 

What did it matter if people knew? They knew, that was far more important.

 

God, did he know.

 

Sherlock gave him _this_ look while they were mingling around the party-goers; the look like John was the most brilliant thing he ever laid his eyes upon.

 

By the end of the evening, they were drunk on each other, and drunk on the wine, drunk on life.

 

And when John stumbled out of the shower and Sherlock sat in his chair, clad only in a wine-red robe and loose pajama pants, the doctor took him by the hands and they danced, without any music; and laughed, without any reason; until they stumbled into the bedroom.

 

They kissed until their lips were of a rich red color and tingled to the touch; and when John buried his nose in the black curls he adored so desperately, he heard the faintest of whispers:

 

“I love you, John.”

 

Life was fucking fantastic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you, super short! I hope you like it nonetheless! 
> 
> I'm overwhelmed with the positive feedback this story received by the way. You guys are AMAZING; keep those comments and kudos and bookmarks coming <3

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated regularily as the story continues; Kudos, Bookmarks and Comments are very much appriciated :3


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